I was watching YouTube the other day when I happened upon a video of Pink on “Ellen.” To summarize, Pink said that she needs pain to make beautiful art. Ellen asked something like,

“Well, then what do you do when everything is going well?”

To which Pink responded something like, “Look around. There is enough pain in the world.”

I agree.

Salt Lake City, Utah

In fact, if all I wrote were happy awesome things like my tall blond boys are equally beautiful and awesome to me and everyone else; my marriage is the very best; I am healthy; I exercise; I do not age; I am my goal weight (even though I eat a lot of sugar); we travel all over the world; and of course, Dave and I have mind-blowing sex on a regular basis, including great orgasms (for both of us), I suspect you might want to hurl a knife at my eye, or better, if you are less violently inclined, you might mumble something softly under your breath like, “bitch.” I know I might.

“you know son apple is better looking than son orange, and you just have to deal with that fact.”

Then this person proceeded to support their assertion about my better-looking son, because (obviously) I knew it too. Ouch! That is some hardcore, mama-bear pain! Oh, Oh and I have tried Botox in my forehead (and really liked it). Dave and I fight. I cry. He looks at his iPhone. We do have sex (thank God)! We also fart during sex. I never wear lingerie. I may or may not compose a to-do list during foreplay, and my legs are rarely shaved, or better, they are often stubbly.

Budapest, Hungary

Hey, and I have also certainly rolled my eyes a time or two after I see a friend’s Instagram perfect bikini shot captioned with some humble brag like,

“Silly me for posting this bad photo. I am usually so shy about posting pictures of myself.”

(Screw you yoga, Cross-Fit, and “shy” friend with a perfect body. You win!). No. I am not writing about jealousy. Nor, do I want to. It is fair to envy. I am writing about pian. We are human and I imagine most of the time our frustrated jealousy may just be reflections of how we feel about our own lives.

Maui

It is funny (not funny at all), after we attended the funeral of Eli’s friend, Eli said something like, “Hey, did you see so and so and his mom?”

I was like, “Yes, I did.”

To which Eli, said, “Isn’t weird that even at a funeral they had to act all better than everyone, like their pain was more important. The kid gave me shade and his mom was not very nice to you.”

I agreed and actually wondered the same thing. I was like,

“Why did they think they were more important? A kid committed suicide because he felt like he did not fit in. And as we were there to honor this young man, it appeared that this mom and son decided that it was the right time to remind us that we were not good enough, that we did not fit into the world as well as they did.”

Weird. I hope they are not people who think they are better than the rest of us. In fairness, maybe they are so used being on the top of the pecking order that they do not notice. I hope that is what it was. I realize as I write this that I need to recognize how I convey myself to others. I need to wake myself up and play fair. Do I make people feel less than? Probably? I hope not. If I have, I am very sorry.

Pembrokeshire Coast National Park, Wales

Nevertheless, I think the experience Eli and I had at the funeral is an interesting moment to deconstruct. I also think that is why writing pain (and awkwardness) is not only safe, it is compelling. Sadly, I imagine I am not the only one who has felt less than or rejected. I also imagine (hope) that when I share my own vulnerably (pain), my guess is that you may relate. It is compelling. In fact, no matter where we sit on the cool scale, the socio-economic hierarchy, or the righteousness ladder, we all know pain. Further, I would argue that showing our pain is a gateway to revealing our empathy.

Hold up. I say this with a strong caveat. If revealing your pain is all about,

“my pain is worse than your pain,”

then I think you need to step out of your self-centered cave, look around and see that you may have missed the boat, or the world exploding around you.

Russell, New Zealand

Ultimately, (because this is kind of a long, streaming thought), I think the incredible beauty of our world is connection. And pain seems to be the catalyst for that connection. My pain allows me to relate to your pain. Sure (and another caveat), obviously there are many many people who have experienced pain that I cannot even imagine. Where I can relate (love) these people is by reaching outside of myself and showing them that I also have known pain.

]]>Why Should I of all people write?https://www.crazyus.com/2019/02/11/who-should-i-of-all-people-write/
Mon, 11 Feb 2019 22:02:25 +0000https://www.crazyus.com/?p=7865I understand feeling invisible, totally uncool, and feeling less than. I really get it. I also know that it gets better, even when better seems absolutely impossible, and even when better means that it might get worse and then get better again.

I feel like writing lately. I have been working on not one, but two, memoirs. The themes are different (of course). Here is what I am working on: (1.) my nutty childhood — without pissing my family off (wish me luck) and (2.) riding the dot com boom, including falling in love with Dave via our mutual high tech careers, dudes who appropriated Dave’s credentials, and a boss who went to prison for selling drugs for Bitcoin on the Silk Road. I have a super solid outline for the second one and several chapters written for the first. (And yes, I want to write at least one travel memoir too.)

Haast, New Zealand

Nevertheless, as a result of my personal memoir-writing quest, I have been trying to learn more about the memoir. My quest reignited when I returned to college.My Senior Seminar class was called, “Critical Theory of the Memoir.” Instead of writing our own story, we studied other texts. What I learned is that “Cancer” memoirs are now considered boring. Ouch! (I urge my professor to read this piece from Mel Magazine about the actor who lost his nose to cancer.

About halfway through the class I learned from another student that our teacher won an award for writing about his experience working at Wendy’s during college. Ultimately, I realized that Joan Didion’s, poignant and moody memoir, “The Year of Magical Thinking” resonated with me most. In fact, my capstone assignment is based on this memoir. Here is a sentence from the second paragraph of my analysis:

“We think of Didion’s memoir ‘The Year Of Magical Thinking’ as sudden, as messy, as organic and off-the-cuff. That misses the fact that it functions as a carefully-crafted grief narrative, adhering to the narrative expectations of that genre.”

After recognizing that I like to deconstruct literature, and after completing my capstone paper, I completely freaked out. I could not breath let alone look at my paper one last time. I knew I was breaking the rules. I knew better. I knew I should let my paper simmer for a minute and read it again. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Instead, As usual I let my insane performance anxiety take over. I knew my structure was not its best. I knew I needed to re-read my paper. I could not face it. I turned it in and immediately regretted my decision. I felt sick. It took me a week to contact my teacher. His words were swift:

“Really? You really think I should let you read your paper one last time? You waited too long to ask. You should have contacted me sooner.”

I received a B+.

It is funny how that B+ has haunted and literally traumatized me.

Haast, New Zealand

Nevertheless, I am determined to write my own story. As a result, recently, I decided I need to get reacquainted with the rhythm and tone of memoirs. I really did not care which memoir I read. Two friends recommended Tara Westover’s memoir, “Educated,” so that is what I chose. “Educated” is a memoir about a homeschooled woman who grew up in Idaho in the survivalist, fundamentalist fringes of the LDS faith. Eventually she attended Brigham Young University, followed by Cambridge University. That being said, she is sure to note in the foreword that the book is not about Mormonism, or that it does not make an opinion about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Interestingly enough, I think the crux and conflict of her entire story has everything to do with the relationship in and then out of the LDS faith. Her memoir has won like a gazillion well-deserved awards. Her voice is completely different (of course), yet her story also feels very familiar.

Of course as I read her memoir, I ended up getting into my head and thinking,

“I am nobody. No one wants to hear another memoir about someone who grew up in The Church of Latter Day Saints.”

And then I was like, “There is no separation of religion and person (even when you leave), so this is my story.”

And then I thought of my friend Joanna and her beautiful memoir, “Book of Mormon Girl,” and I was like,

“Well, at least two there are two Mormon-girl books.”

Haast, New Zealand

I decided to put myself out there. I made a few calls and wrote a few texts.

A week ago I had lunch with a friend who works in the book industry. She is smart and kind. She also reminded me that people who write memoirs, memoirs that do well, are usually famous, like Michelle Obama. (She actually did use the example of Michelle Obama.) That is when I could see I was not selling her. I brain-scrambled and kept thinking,

“Beth, you have to work on your pitch.”

Through a discussion on how we could actually tip or original waitress instead of the one who took over, my throat cracked. My eyes filled with tears. Now between bites of a Southwestern chicken salad and giant pieces of lettuce getting stuck in my braces, I began telling her about my friend Bill:

“I am a little embarrassed that Bill’s family says things like I helped save his life.”

She perked up.

Haast, New Zealand

I continued,

“I totally feel sheepish telling you this story. Bill worked for my husband, Dave. We were laying people off. That was the startup world. So Bill began consulting with his former colleagues at Cantor Fitzgerald. Sure, Bill called me Friday, September 8, 2001, and asked if we had any work for him back in DC. He was working in the World Trade Center at the time. I was like, ‘Bill, I talked to Dave an hour ago. Of course I pressed him. You know I am like that. I asked him if he had work for you to do. He wasn’t sure, but then he called me back. He does.’ Then Bill asked if he should stay in New York or come home. I was excited and I was persistent. I was like, ‘Bill, please come home.You have to come home!’ True story. Thankfully he did.”

My lunch companion gasped, and I said,

“Hey, none of us had any idea what would take place on Monday, September 11, 2001. Selfishly, I just wanted Bill to come home. I loved his family. His wife, Stephanie, is one of my best friends. She was home with their two small children. I wanted Bill home because I did not want Bill and Stephanie to leave Northern Virginia. Thankfully it worked out for Bill. Six-hundred and fifty-eight of his colleagues lost their lives that day.”

Haast, New Zealand

As I finished, my friend seemed more encouraged. Then she paused, looked at me, and reminded me about the importance of knowing who my audience is.

“Don’t be too broad.” She cautioned, then added, “Think of one person you can speak too. That is the advice I often give to people showing me their books.”

Since our lunch date, I have thought way too much about who that person would be. Maybe my audience could be my friend, Beth. She is funny and a good listener, or Stephanie, Bill’s wife. We have each raised two sons. She gets it. Of course I thought my audience should really be a younger version of myself. I thought about how I could tell young me my story, reminding her she is valid and worthwhile. Even when things seem really crazy, I would remind young me not give up.

Us, Haast, New Zealand

Not to do a complete one-eighty on this post, but in this moment, I think it would write my memoir to Eli’s friend, Roan. He killed himself last week. His parents posted a poem on his memorial page that he wrote just a few days before killing himself. His writing is beautiful, creative, tight, honest and hopeless. I would picture myself talking to Roan at our local coffee shop or the Mexican restaurant, where he worked. I would tell Roan my crazy stories and insane adventures because first, at his memorial I learned from people of all ages what a kind, generous and empathetic friend he was. Meaning, I know he would listen. I also guess that he would give me, (the parent of one of his friends), the validation I needed — even if he did not think my stories were good, or that it was weird, because I am his friend’s mom. I can see him nod in approval, just like he did after suggesting that Dave get one of each type of fish taco. I also know he would be kind, because, at his funeral, that is what every single person said about Roan. If Roan were my audience, maybe I could remind him that we are not alone, that it is ok to be quirky, and think outside of the lines. Through my life story, I could remind him that I understand depression. I understand feeling invisible, totally uncool, and feeling less than. I really get it. I also know that it gets better, even when better seems absolutely impossible, and even when better means that it might get worse and then get better again.

Finally, I would share my stories with this young man in hopes that he could know that he is of value. I would reinforce that like Pink said on, “Ellen,” the beauty of pain is that it creates amazing art. I would tell him that he is talented. People see him. Then maybe if he could feel seen, he would not have felt like he could not stay. Ultimately, I never want anyone to feel like they have to go. I am very sad that he did.

]]>If You Are in Crisis, TEXT #741741https://www.crazyus.com/2019/02/07/if-you-are-in-crisis-text-741741/
Thu, 07 Feb 2019 19:34:00 +0000https://www.crazyus.com/?p=7840Earlier this week, a friend posted this: “I don’t have any answers but I do know this: (1.) death is just a doorway; (2.) it always gets better; (3.) love is the answer to all of our problems.” ﻿

“First, (if) you’re in crisis. That doesn’t just mean suicide: it’s any painful emotion for which you need support. You text us at 741741.”

…Last week Eli came home from school and told me one of his friends had died. The next morning he told me that his friend had committed suicide.

My heart breaks and keeps breaking some more. When I hear about a suicide I always envision the following scene: I see that person stuck in the rapids. I see myself far away, reaching out my hand. Then I realize I cannot get to them and they are gone.

My mom’s husband’s son killed himself when we were on vacation a few years back. A high school friend’s sister, who was a mother of five, drove to a park and killed herself. My best friend’s dad killed himself when she was away for work. Dave’s friend & coworker drove onto the Golden Gate bridge, parked his car, quickly got out, walked over to the edge, and immediately jumped to his death. I went to coffee with a mom who told me that her daughter slit her wrists and it is a miracle she is alive. Last year a student at a nearby school committed suicide by hanging in the school building. Two years ago Kyle’s dear friend tried to kill herself. This girl’s sister tried to kill herself the month before. At the same time, one of Eli’s friends called and told him that she had just taken a handful of pills.

After Eli heard about his friend he felt understandably disjointed. So, as Eli tried to process his friend’s death, he and I talked and talked. He reminded me about the rough emotions his peers are dealing with each day. Then he reminded me of this moment:

“Mom, remember that girl, the one who took the pills? I would have been the last person she spoke to before she died.”

He was fifteen at the time. He told this girl he was going to get help. Immediately he spoke with Dave and me. Then he tracked down her parents. We all made sure she was ok.

Córdoba, Spain

Years ago I tried to write about suicide. I was asked not to include personal stories (because they might embarrass someone). Instead, I talked around the subject.

Here is what I wrote on May 2, 2005 (*I have updated this post to reflect current statistics — By the way, suicide rates have nearly doubled since 2005 & my outlook has also changed.):

“The first day of my seventh grade Social Studies class was like any other first day of junior high. It was a warm, sunny autumn in Minnesota. This was the first year I would get to pick some of my own classes, move from room to room and actually not have to be with the same kids all day long. My teacher was new to school and I believe this was her first teaching job. She gave us our seating assignments, called roll and I remember that one seat remained empty. I didn’t really think anything of it. Kids surely would be changing teachers and maybe when this boy saw the new Social Studies teacher, he bolted for the nearest exit.

A month went by, and although some of us had been absent a day or two during that time, this boy’s seat constantly remained empty. The teacher asked once again,

“Does anyone know where Ritchie is? Did he move?”
And then, like he never existed, the teacher (choosing to leave the very large elephant in the room) never spoke of him again.

For the first month of seventh grade all this boy was to me was the perpetually empty seat in my Social Studies class. Eventually, because the subject was so hush hush, I found out through other students who knew him from their elementary school what had happened.

At age twelve, one hot and humid Midwestern summer day, this little boy went into his bedroom and hung himself.

His death haunted me for a long time. In many ways I think it still does.

‘Why would someone my age (which was twelve at the time) want to kill himself? What was he like? What made him so sad or feel so unredeemable that he felt like he needed to take his own life? Why won’t the teacher talk about it? Why do people treat this boy like he never existed? Are you less of a person if you kill yourself?’

I am a verbalizer by nature. I like to process things and I like to get my feelings out in the open. I was completely thrown by this and because I was still young and innocent. I was also completely baffled by all of the silence. I needed to talk about what was swirling around in my head, which was the shame, the sorrow and the reality that once you die, there is no coming back. The good, if there can be good from this boy’s death, is that at a very early age I understood the responsibility that we have to see the people around us. We share this world together. Consequently, it became essential for me to notice the lonely and sad people that crossed my path. And I thought that maybe if I took a moment to listen or smile or include them, they would know that someone out there sees their worth.

Sadly, the more years I live, the more I see that it probably takes more than a smile or a hug to save someone’s life. (That doesn’t mean that I think I should stop reaching out, however, and I won’t.) The more people I encounter and the more I read, sadly, the more I know that suicide is much more common than many of us may realize. Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death. In 2017, 47,173 Americans died by suicide. By 2018 statistics, suicide is Utah’s 8th leading cause of death. Additionally, In 2017, there were an estimated 1,400,000 suicide attempts. When you see the numbers laid out like that, it’s pretty astounding.

And then it occurred to me that maybe we do not realize that suicide is so common because we (still) do not like to talk about it. It is an understatement to claim that suicide is a horrible and very sad thing. Yet the more I think about suicide, the more I acknowledge that people who kill themselves have completely lost hope and are SHRIEKING for help! I think if you asked someone who has survived a suicide attempt, they may just say they tried to kill themselves they may actually minimize their pain in their response. We all need to feel worth, not shame. In a society that does not (seem to) like to speak about suicide, are we giving a person another message: that because of how they feel, that somehow they are shameful and bad and that this world would be better without them. Do I make any sense? This is such a big topic and just my little web post can not give it justice. The bottom line is this: if we are not talking about suicide, or if we are not allowing suicidal people to talk about their suffering, I would argue that we we are closing doors that may ultimately save someone’s life.

Further, as a person who has experienced depression first-hand, I know what it is like to feel hopeless, worthless and feel like, “What is the point?” I know what it is like to feel lost, yet not have the energy to go on.

Córdoba, Spain

A week ago, after having a very contemplative discussion with our neighbors regarding things like how evil Walmart is, the need for universal healthcare, all the problems in Africa . . . (the list went on and on), I had a sleepless night thinking about all the things I would do to make the world a better place. The next morning I decided to post that list. Number eighteen on my list was ‘Better understanding of Depression/Suicide Prevention.’

Of all the things I listed, number eighteen seemed to strike a huge chord with many of you.

Out of the many emails I received on the subject of depression and suicide, two sisters, Ryan and Molly, contacted me (Ryan emailed me and Molly left a comment). Ryan immediately told me about a walk she was doing in July called, Out of the Darkness: A 20-mile walk [through Chicago] through the night to end the silence surrounding suicide. She kindly suggested that if I really want to make a difference, I could start here. Her email came at a haunting moment: I received it just moments after speaking to someone close to me, just after she had returned from the funeral of someone she knew that had committed suicide. The universe is crazy like that. Of course, I took Ryan’s email as a sign and immediately donated to the cause. The next day I received an email from Molly. She let me know that Ryan was her sister, they were doing the walk in honor of their dad, and she wondered if I could get the word out.

I said yes, and that is when I became completely overwhelmed. To write about suicide and depression has made me acknowledge that as much as I have personally found peace in my life, there are days when I feel like a complete loser (hopeless). Those are not easy feelings to face. I also had to face the completely crushing sorrow I feel each and every time I hear of someone who has either taken their life or has tried to take their life. As sad as I have been (and I have been very sad before), I was willing to face my own pain in hopes that maybe someone out there will know that I get it, that there is always hope, NO MATTER WHAT!

Priego de Córdoba, Spain

Here is Molly and Ryan’s story as told by Molly:

‘My sister Ryan and I decided to participate in the Overnight after being invited by our aunt. She is my Dad’s sister. My dad took his life thirteen years ago this coming August. We never really talked to anyone about it and so it is something I have never come to terms with. What I know is that he felt like his life had gotten so far away from where he wanted it to be, with no chance to get things back on track. He just felt that his family would be better off without him. What I wonder is, would things have been different if he had shared these feelings with just one person? Did he ever even think about talking to anyone? What if my sister and I had been able to talk about it after it happened? Would I feel differently about it all now? Hopefully, through donating and participating in the Out of the Darkness Overnight we will all be one step closer to a better understanding of suicide. People just don’t talk about it because it is an uncomfortable thing to talk about, but it doesn’t help anyone to pretend it doesn’t happen.

So in honor of the life that we all lost, I will be walking, along with my sister Ryan and my Aunt Maryellen, in the Out of the Darkness Overnight Walk with the hope that we will be helping to make at least a small difference in how we all deal with suicide.

I have talked to more people about my dad since I registered for this event than I have in years. I know that other people feel strongly about it, but like I said, nobody likes to talk about it. I agree with what you said, nobody should feel so hopeless, but if they do, that there is no shame in it and there are ways to change it. I just want as many people to know about this as possible. Sure, I am looking for the money to meet my fundraising goals, but that money is going to make a difference in someone else’s life somewhere down the line.’

Thank you Molly, Ryan (still) and all of you for giving me an opportunity to talk about something that is so important to me: hope. If we lose hope in ourselves, each other and in this world, then what do we have?

And I cannot end this without saying that if you are having suicidal thoughts or know someone that is, please get help. Please tell yourself you can make it through the next five minutes, then the next, then the next. Please reach out! We are here for you.”

Malaga, Spain

Now back 2019:

Earlier in the week I had an opportunity to write on a memorial page for Eli’s friend. I cannot imagine the heartbreak his parents are going through now.

Here is what I wrote: “Our son Eli and your son share many mutual friends. Your son is a year younger than Eli. Eli told us he met your son last year and that your son sat by Eli and their group of friends. Eli told me how smart he was.

A few weeks ago my husband and I walked into the Sugar House Rubios to grab something to eat while we waited for Eli. The restaurant was virtually empty. A very nice young man took our order. I remember joking around with him because my husband kept changing his mind. It was your son. He did not roll his eyes at my husband’s wishy-washy-ness. Instead, he was very patient, kind and suggested some options (telling us what he liked best). A few minutes later, Eli walked in and walked over to our table. Eli did not see his friend. As he sat there, he told us that your son had just texted him. Eli told us his friend was working at the counter and immediately popped up and went and visited with him. I remember thinking,

‘what a thoughtful kid.’

As we left, we all walked over to the counter and visited with your son. I only wish I had paid more attention to that moment.

When Eli received the news this week that your son had passed he said,

‘Mom, I saw him at school on Monday and gave him a hug.’

We want you to know that your son touched many lives. Eli did not know him as well as others. Nevertheless, your son impacted Eli’s life and Eli definitely considered your son a friend. We are all very sorry for your loss.”

This evening we will attend the funeral. I still have no words. I am so sad that this family are in a place where they have to make this suggestion and also grateful stated that in lieu of flowers that we donate to the American Society For Suicide Prevention. Hey and if you are sad, please know you can always reach out to me. Never feel like you are too much. Never feel ashamed. I may not have the right skills, but I have the energy to help you get to the right place. I am here and I see you — for real. I promise.

Ultimately, I think we can no longer ignore how pervasive suicide, suicide attempts and depression are. That is why I keep wracking my brain, trying to figure what else I can do.

As a mom, I try to be more transparent. I try to let my boys know that that they are of worth and that I see them — that their feelings of sadness are ok, and that it is ok to fail. I am sure there is more. I am open.

Malaga, Spain

End Note. From the principal of Eli’s School:

“Our students’ lives are precious, and as we move into the coming weekend, we want to equip you and your families with every resource at our disposal to keep our students safe. Below, you will find a list of additional resources to help you help your students.”

RESOURCES:

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

SafeUT Crisis Text and Tip Line app: This app is a statewide service that provides 24/7 crisis Intervention to youth through texting, phone calls, online chat, or an anonymous tip program.

Crisis Hotline Text (#741741): Text HOME to 741741 from anywhere in the United States, anytime, about any type of crisis. A live, trained Crisis Counselor receives the text and responds, all from our secure online platform. The volunteer Crisis Counselor will help you move from a hot moment to a cool moment.

]]>Please Prove Me Wrong: Mormons, even Ex-Mormons, Make The Worst Friends.https://www.crazyus.com/2018/11/13/please-prove-wrong-mormons-even-ex-mormons-make-worst-friends/
Tue, 13 Nov 2018 23:08:54 +0000https://www.crazyus.com/?post_id=7785…Or considering the recent “Mormon-is-not-our-name,” omission, and my need to editorialize, here is the long title: Please Prove Me Wrong: (Utah) Members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, Especially the Ones in My Neighborhood, (LDS Ward), even Ex Members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, or those in the midst of a LDS Faith Transition, Make The Worst Friends. Before you get all up in my business and ask me who hurt my feelings, let me set you straight. My feelings are not hurt. This is my lens, not yours. And through […]

Me in New Zealand’s South Island at Mount Aspiring National Park, August, 2018

…Or considering the recent “Mormon-is-not-our-name,” omission, and my need to editorialize, here is the long title:

Please Prove Me Wrong: (Utah) Members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, Especially the Ones in My Neighborhood, (LDS Ward), even Ex Members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, or those in the midst of a LDS Faith Transition, Make The Worst Friends.

Before you get all up in my business and ask me who hurt my feelings, let me set you straight.

My feelings are not hurt.

Us, Haast, South Island, New Zealand

This is my lens, not yours. And through my lens, I feel like a stranger in a strange land. (Maybe this is why I travel so much.) Anyway, I do not understand why relationships seem more defined by social status, or by checking off a worthiness box, or being seen at a Mormon church, and less about balanced friendship. As such, I remain actively puzzled. (If it helps, I have been voicing my opinion on the subject for some time.) Nevertheless, I remain determined to figure it out. I also recognize that I may never understand how to friend in Mormon-land. Better, I may never get how Mormons friend, (and yes, ex-Mormons, who, whether they like it or not, tend to remain steadfastly cultural Mormons). Finally, please oh please, do not tell me that the solution to my discontent is about church activity. Telling me there is a place in the choir for everyone, or that I should just show up and be a part of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, misses my point [insert exasperated lift of my right hand to my face here]. I am a non-alcohol-drinking non participating member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. For me, it is not about worthiness or church attendance. It is about reciprocal friendship.

That being said, in fairness, I did ask you to change my mind (in the title). Before you deconstruct my opinion, please do me a solid, and read to the end. Then, absolutely have at me. Thank you!

Sure, I could take the path of least resistance and blame blame my super LDS neighborhood, or the Mormon fringe. (I have done that before.) It would be easy. Whatever the reason, I definitely (still) feel like I moved into the least inclusive place Utah has to offer, I mean, LDS ward (which of course makes all my other connections seem all the more angst-filled).

Locks in Queenstown, New Zealand, August, 2018

Here is my nudge: I have always made friends easily. I am also a very social creature. (Probably why I was hired as the greeter at the copy shop back in the day or that my elementary school teacher put a box around me for talking so much.) That is why my need for social interaction is confounded by my inability to fit into the neighborhood completely messes with my head. Needless to say, this is also why I have spent way too much time trying to crack the Mormon code. As a result, I have an entire philosophy about LDS wards being a dysfunctional family (you love them, even though you do not necessarily like, or approve of, them). They seamlessly cement their social structure into the confines of a geographic location. In that narrative, the members of an LDS ward take on certain roles. I am one of the fallen. And even though I no do not attend church, I was baptized. And because I was baptized, I am on the LDS church records. And because I am on the LDS records, my fellow LDS ward members (dysfunctional family) feel a stewardship towards me, albeit an awkward one. In contrast, my neighbors across the street, who are not in my ward, do not feel the same responsibility for my salvation. As a result, I think they are able to act a little more normal.

In truth, I have made some headway. If someone’s daughter is keen on one of my sons, I can guarantee some temporary acceptance. Further, if a woman in the neighborhood wants to talk disparagingly about another woman, I am an easy and safe receptacle. I totally bite. I will always share. I love to empathize. I am like, “yes, she is so lame…” And then the moment comes when I realize I am simply someone to unload on, and not someone to consistently hang out with. Ok. I am not talking codependent hang out with. I am just talking, reliable, or say, wants to hang out beyond me serving as their receptacle. Actually, I get it. Those ladies are also trying to fit in too. Spending time with me and my “big tent” (there is enough room for everyone) thinking only takes energy away from their in-group efforts.

Me & Big Daddy with two awesome dudes and some tents, Conwy, Wales

Let me back-up. I was raised Mormon. LDS and former LDS humans have been my people. Because Mormons are my lane, I have written about why I think Mormons-Make-Terrible-Friends before, specifically in regards to my current neighborhood (see additional information at the bottom of this post). As a result, I have received a bunch of constructive feedback like,

“What about me? I am a good friend!” “Why don’t you move?” “It is probably you, not them.” “I live down the street, but am not in your ward. Those women are bitches.”

The feedback is probably correct, especially about me. Instead of running for the hills, I stubbornly believe I will make this neighborhood dynamic work — even if it kills me. Yet, on days like today, if I knew then what I know now, I would have never ever moved into this neighborhood, or better, this side of the street.

As such, I am sure I am not the only one who has observed the anthropological phenomenon of an LDS ward boundary. Especially in densely populated LDS areas I would suggest when a LDS ward boundary changes, or you move, you shove your social world into whatever ward boundary you reside in. Hey and I am all for necessary boundaries, just not harmful or arbitrary ones. To prove this street-based/boundary-controlled assertion, come to my Salt Lake City neighborhood on Halloween Night. I live on the edge of our LDS ward boundary. Hundreds of LDS ward members, I mean, trick-or-treaters, literally live across the street. They never cross to trick-or-treat on our side of the street. Dave noticed. He was like,

“Do we have the plague? Is there an impassible lava field flowing down our street?”

To which I answered, “Dude, that’s the other ward. They never come over here.”

Halloween night is literally where you can see the collective energy being focused into one boundary. Pushing the boundary-analogy further, I do have friends who live across the street (in the boundaries of the other LDS Ward). Interestingly enough, these across-the-street neighbors do not seem to struggle as much with being my friend (or feel the responsibility for my salvation).

Here is probably a good place to address the feedback I have been give about “you” being a good friend:

“Well, yes, you are a good friend.”

Kyle at the Utah State Capitol, January 2017 Women’s March

Here is the conundrum: I think how we understand and do friendship is different. That is why I hope this next part does not sting. Even though you are a great friend, from my vantage point, your idea of friendship seems contingent on your religion (religious-based culture), or better, how your religion taught you to friend. Again in this scenario, it is definitely me, not you. I do not come from a long history of Mormons, or Utah culture, or LDS culture, or even LDS fringe culture.

That is why I never understood the concept of friendship based on LDS ward boundaries. Additionally, I never understood that say Visiting Teachers (now Ministering Sisters) came to your house, would totally get you to unload your most personal issues, and then be so impersonal when you saw them outside of the context of their purpose. I find this behavior jarring. I think others find it normal, (it is me, not you).

So, when I stopped participating in church, I decided to try out the LDS fringe culture assuming I would be less jarred. I was like,

“It will be different. Those people will get me. We can have a balanced connection.”

Nope.

The LDS fringe culture was not different. In this huge, Utah-based faith-transition-Mormon group, I found that many of these folks seem to follow similar social constructs and cultural patterns as the faith they were raised in. As such, the social issues (friend-shipping) I had with the Mormons also seem to exist within the ex-Mormons. Even though they no may longer believe in Joseph Smith, or attend Mormon church, the faith transitioners, (and yes, even the ones in my own neighborhood), still maintain their hot and cold disclosing and weird social boundaries. With them, the confines of a ward boundary simply morph into say followers of a certain podcast, a cause, a Facebook group, or where you land (how nuanced you are) regarding your faith transition. That is why, even my friends who were raised in the LDS religion, but have left, not only seem to fare better socially (here in Utah), they also seem to understand and abide by these cultural patterns and norms.

The boys, North Coast of New Zealand, Hot Water Beach

It all boils down to in-group/out-group. Within the groups people are vying for position. It does not matter whether it is a competition to be the blondest, most worthy Lululemon-wearing-LDS mom, or the hippest LGBQT Mormon-fringe activist. I may be super (fake) blond and I love a good protest. Nonetheless, I know my place. I am the cipher. As my tenuously-Mormon friend (who lives in Texas) told me,

“Beth, you are different.”

I know.

She continued, “Your tent is big and fits everyone. It is a tent where we can all be friends, whether we drink coffee or Red Bull (yes, there is a group distinction) — [insert eye roll here]. In contrast, most people are more comfortable existing in a much smaller tent.”

“I am sure freak them out.” I replied.

“Of course you do. They don’t know where to put you.”

“Yep.” I responded. Then followed my own response, “They quizzically say things like, ‘she doesn’t go to church, but she is happy.’ and of course the people who have left Mormonism say things like, ‘she is not part of a cult anymore, but why won’t she drink alcohol?’ Then I am like, there has to be a space for people like me.”

This is when my friend tried to relate my comments to the tents.

“It is what it is. Yet, you know the thing about small tents? They don’t have as much space. That is why everyone is fighting so hard to stay in said [small] tent.”

My friend is on to something. It is my big-tent-philosophy (delusion) that keeps me trying bridge the LDS ward/LDS-fringe boundaries, or the fringe LDS culture. I would also argue that it is the small tent-philosophy of others that stops me dead in my tracks. I want to say,

“Big tents also have healthy boundaries.”

Me & Big Daddy, Hot Water Beach, North Island, New Zealand

And because the terms of friendship are heavily dictated by these very same LDS ward boundaries, or fringe LDS social groups, I still struggle to find a space in their small tent. Consequently, I continue to feel like an outsider, a loser and a human who is unable to make a consistent neighbor friend. Really? If had a dollar for every neighbor (ward member) who asked for my number so we could go walking (people see me out walking all of the time), I could cast a whole entire series of the “Bachelor.” Of course it would be the “LDS Bachelor,” (and yes, that is a thing). Similarly, if I had a dollar for every time I connected with a Mormon fringe person only to find rejection as soon as they learn I do not drink alcohol, well, then I could use that money to cast a whole series of, “The Bachelor in Paradise.” (Yes. This is also a thing. And duh, of course there would be a lot of swinging and booze.)

The thing is I still think we can have a large tent, maybe not a perfect tent, but a large, inclusive, tent. I have proof. We have lived in other Utah neighborhoods, including two other Salt Lake City homes, a home in Provo and in Park City. Park City was hilarious. Even though the logistics of our Park City home were at times tenuous, I never felt excluded or less than. In fact, one neighbor sued us (like for real sued us because his basement flooded and he needed someone to blame), and another would abruptly turn her head away every time we crossed paths (in our shared driveway). Regardless, we always gave each other holiday cards. The husband of the head-turning neighbor lady always greeted us. He never turned his head. And after the other neighbor dude sued us, he was like,

“Hello neighbor! How are you,” (sincerely interested and I must admit a little weird). “Hey, no hard feelings. Someone had to pay for the flooding. And your house was the one upstream (true story).”

Me & Big Daddy, Berchtesgaden National Park, Berchtesgaden, Germany

Then recently, Dave and I went to dinner with some former SLC neighbors. We moved out of their neighborhood twelve years ago. When we moved, I was in the midst of infertility treatments (crazy intense hormones). Dave and I stopped going to church regularly, and I was in a big public conflict with my former friend, who was a famous blogger, and also a neighbor in that neighborhood. Needless to say, at the time, I was totally unhinged. Yet, somehow through it all, Dave and I remained good friends with our former neighbors and now dinner companions. Not only have we remained good friends with them, we are still connected with many people in the old hood. In the interest of full disclosure, even these awesome friends have their limits. Their time and focus still seems directed to their specific LDS ward boundaries. In fact when the wife spoke of her neighborhood acceptance, the acceptance was filtered through the behavior of her specific LDS ward. So, yes, our dinner companions remain our friends, but their neighborhood friendships (LDS ward boundaries), will always be where their energy and commitment lies. (Still way better than our current situation.) Do I kick myself for not moving back into that more accepting SLC neighborhood like the one I left twelve years ago? Absolutely.

I still do not have a happy solution.

In the end, we may have to move. (For real and I am working on that. I send Dave MLS listings daily.) I am tenacious. I will continue chipping away at the cultural norm.

Thankfully, as I chip away, I see that I am not the only one who feels alone, isolated or alienated. I hope I can reach back and be a better friend. I hope I can let someone out there know they are not alone. I see them. I also see the good. Additionally, I have found some very empathetic, awesome and like-minded souls. They are the people who seem less concerned about fitting into small tents, and more concerned with being a friend. They are the ones who keep texting me to go climbing, who sign their LDS missionary letters with their first name. They are the ones who consistently love my boys (even when their daughters are no longer in love with them). They are the ones who text me out of the blue with their theories on appropriation and understanding of astrology. They definitely ask me how I am and then mean it. They stay late at every get together, just to help me clean up. They are the ones willing to listen, even when it is terribly uncomfortable. Of course they seem to care more about being kind than making sure everyone knows how much good they do. It is obvious they care more about people and less about status. Ultimately, they are the ones who (I imagine) think cultural boundaries are arbitrary. They see similarity more than difference. They are not afraid to stand in their own space. They teach me. They are the folks who always help me get through the day.

For them, I am grateful.

Now have at me!

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:

As I mentioned, this is not my first public attempt at solving my neighborhood issue. I am including a screenshot from my January 16, 2018, Instagram & Facebook post:

Screenshot from Instagram/Facebook Post, January 16, 2018

I also exchanged an email with my local LDS Relief Society President. She shared much of my email with a local Relief Society (LDS Women’s meeting) lesson, so I think it is ok I share it here. The email was in response to questionnaire she sent to our local LDS ward/neighborhood. I think it is clear through our exchange that I am not the only one who feels out of place.

By the way, I really like her.

MY EMAIL RESPONSE:

“Hey (Relief Society President),

I hope all is well with you. I will give your questions a shot.

1) How do you feel like you could be a better neighbor?

I definitely could make myself more available and known/seen. So, in an attempt to get to know my neighbors, when I am on my daily walk, I make an effort to get out of my head, to look up, smile and wave to all my neighbors, (which is not always easy). And sure, sometimes they turn their heads when I wave. Wait! Their head turns are not the point. This question is how can I be a better neighbor. Here is what I can do. When I am included, I need to reach back. Even if I cannot attend, or even if I think their engagement method is weird such as an eVite from someone I have never met, I need to be kind and reach back.

I can also openly answer your questions. So I am trying that too.

2) How could people be a better neighbor to you or your family?

Instead of my usual, “don’t shove flyers in my mailbox,” or “ding dong ditch” me a birthday gift from the relief society, I want to offer another perspective. I hope that is ok.

I just returned from dropping my oldest son off at NYU Abu Dhabi, which is so, so far away. I miss him terribly. Like everything makes me cry, even mangos at the grocery store. He loves mangos.

Even though the flights were long, I am grateful that I was part of a group of parents who were able to attend an on campus parent orientation that coincided with dropping off their son or daughter. The parents came from all over the world. As I was quickly reminded, they experience life differently than I do. They have different cultural norms, conflicts and ways of resolving these differences. In fact, my sons’ Sri Lankan roommate is an ethnic Sinhalese. This young man’s mother spoke about their conflict with the ethnic Tamils, who also reside in Sri Lanka. At one point this young man was telling us about all the atrocities the Tamils had committed to the Sinhalese people, which they have. From this young man’s vantage point, the Tamils are bad and the Sinhalese are the exalted. His mother wisely interjected and said, “Hey, you are now at a university where there are very few people are from Sri Lanka. Some of them are Tamil. You will have to figure out how to get along with them.” High fives to her!

Kyle & I at NYU Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates. (Man, I miss that kid.)

Later on in the weekend the parents attended a TED-styled talk given by an UAE Arab cultural consultant. He was dressed in the traditional gown (dishdasha) and headdress (ghutra). He was very entertaining and is very committed to his Muslim faith. As entertaining as he was, in truth, I found myself getting offended. It took me a few days to realize why. See, at one point he offered a long analogy about how he and his wife saw a very inappropriately dressed woman at the grocery store. His wife was dressed in the traditional Abaya (dress), hijab (head scarf), Niqab (the ninja looking face mask). He said that even though the UAE is very permissive, that in truth when we are in their country that we should respect their cultural norms such as modesty in dress. And that when we don’t, the native UAE people are most definitely giving us the side eye, talking and judging us just like he and his wife did at the grocery store. I think it was his admission of judging which struck a nerve and felt really close to home. I was like, “Um, seriously. Judging us is so not cool.” Once I thought about it, however, I appreciated his honesty and understood why they felt offended. And because I was far away from my own neighborhood, I could safely make the correlation. See, I do not attend church. The cultural norm in this highly concentrated LDS area is to be an an active (seen as active) member (by attending church). In the UAE, for instance, the natives, feel like they can set the cultural norms. And just like the Arabs feel slighted because people do not dress modestly, I think part of our issue is that the LDS church culture dictates the rules of what is acceptable here in Utah (our predominantly LDS neighborhood).

My guess is that because I am not active, I do not hold the same level of cultural acceptance as someone who is. In fairness to the LDS church, in this community they are the ones perceived as doing the work, attending church, keeping their commitment to their faith… And because there is such a high concentration of LDS people, they are the ones setting the cultural rules. It is what it is. And I also understand that because I am not active or attending church, I am breaking those cultural norms. My guess is the question you are getting to is, “how do we bridge?” Just like I should not wear scantily clad clothing in the UAE (or anywhere, for that matter, wink wink), I think we can be honest with our feelings and judgements. (Thank you for providing a space to do just that.) Personally, I can be more respectful of the cultural rules and norms. I also think we can work on reciprocity. For instance, as you probably know, NYU is an American University. Even though they are guests of the UAE, the University is bound by FERPA and other US based guidelines, such as the requirement that classes are co-ed. For these two cultures to co-exisit, they have to work on respecting each culture — while remaining true to their own codes of conduct. For instance, NYU AD will not have gender separated classes and is required to have sex ed classes, including giving information on birth control and where the students can get free condoms. And as you may imagine, in the UAE, premarital sex is against the law. Alas, to co-exist, they have to compromise and they have. For example, there are same sex only dorms and co-ed dorms. Off campus, the students are expected to demonstrate acceptable behavior. (Of course they are not expected to wear the traditional Muslin attire).

Am I making any sense?

Now back to our neighborhood. How can we be better neighbors? Just like the UAE and NUY Abu Dhabi do, I think we need to find a way to accept and respect the places where we are each coming from and find a way to not only exist together, but to thrive as a community. Ultimately, I may not attend church, but I sure love people and would love for my neighbors to feel safe and comfortable around me. Here is a thought. Bridge the differences. Have a neighborhood committee that includes both LDS members, non members, inactive member, that together plan neighborhood events and then participate in those events.

most sincerely,

Beth Adams

PS way longer than I intended. Obviously I am downloading from my recent trip.

NOW HER EMAIL QUESTIONNAIRE:

On Sep 5, 2018, at 9:28 AM, (Relief Society President) wrote:

This Sunday will be our September Relief Society Council Meeting.

Over the course of several months, I’ve had the chance to talk to many women in the neighborhood–some who are with us on Sunday for church and some who are not. And one thing has been clear: we are a people who long for and are committed to connection.

We would like to talk about this topic this Sunday in a council meeting we are referring to as “Love Thy Neighbor”. In preparation for this discussion, we would love for you to think about and respond to the following questions:

1) How do you feel like you could be a better neighbor?

2) How could people be a better neighbor to you or your family?

This is a great way for those of you serving in other areas in the ward or who will for any other reason not be with us on Sunday to have your voices heard and to participate in these important council meetings.

As always, your responses will be kept confidential.

Thank you for taking the time to think about this and respond. I will send a follow-up email next Sunday night so you know what came of the discussion. And I hope as many of you as possible will join us on Sunday in the Relief Society room at 2:40pm.

]]>Does it have to be the one who screams the loudest?https://www.crazyus.com/2018/05/14/one-screams-loudest/
Mon, 14 May 2018 17:30:38 +0000https://www.crazyus.com/?post_id=7763Moments ago I sat in the orthodontist’s office. My oldest son was getting his braces off. His braces came off easily. “Do you plan on keeping your wisdom teeth?” The dental assistant asked him. “Yes.” We both replied. “Well, they are coming in straight. So I say why not.” She responded and continued, “I just want to make sure we get this right and it is hard to get impressions of wisdom teeth. They are so far back.” After five tries, they were (finally) able to get the right teeth impressions retainer molds. I was impressed with her care and […]

“Well, they are coming in straight. So I say why not.” She responded and continued, “I just want to make sure we get this right and it is hard to get impressions of wisdom teeth. They are so far back.”

After five tries, they were (finally) able to get the right teeth impressions retainer molds. I was impressed with her care and her fortitude. Soon we would be on our way. We just needed orthodontist to polish my son’s teeth. We sat. We waited. And we waited some more. As we waited, a woman holding a notebook, (who I later found out was a new employee). With her walked in the lovely dental assistant. Shortly after that, a mother and daughter came in. The girl (probably around twelve years old) sat in the dental chair next to my son’s. My mind drifted as I remembered the days of individual dental rooms. The newer, assembly-line-style orthodontia surely makes appointments faster and enables the orthodontist to move swiftly from chair to chair. Consequently, I imagine it also makes things more cost effective. My sons definitely seem to enjoy seeing that they are not the only ones who have to wear like sixty different rubber bands in their mouth.

As my son and I waited, we watched as the assistant readied the girl’s station. At once the girl’s mom stood up and warmly said,

“My daughter does better if you tell her what you will be doing first. She likes it if you walk her through the process.”

“Of course.” The assistant responded and then sweetly explained the next step.

I was amazed. She was the same assistant who had just taken five impressions of my sons’ teeth.

“We use this sand to make it easier for the braces to adhere…” she continued.

It was now 11:00 a.m. My son had been at the orthodontist since 8:00 a.m. I saw his anxiety. He had an AP test at noon. He looked at his watch. He needed to leave.

As my son’s face grew pale, I could not ignore what was happening next to us. The girl was screaming. Her mom was standing with her fists clenched. The woman with the notebook sat silent. The assistant calmly and gently continued,

“Now we are going to place these trays in. I have not seen this process hurt anyone. I do not think it will hurt you.”

“Hey honey. They are going to tell you what is going to happen. You can do this.” The mother said.

My son sat silent and wide eyed.

The girl began to weep. Then sob. Now she was wailing. That is when I saw the mother cry. She stood up, turned her back and looked like she was making a call.

Another assistant walked up and slowly walked back. The girl loudly pleaded,

“I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! This is going to hurt. It is going to hurt. I can’t!”

The mother turned back, looked at her daughter and said,

“This is so embarrassing. I am so embarrassed.”

I looked at my son. He reminded me that it was now 11:15 a.m.

“I know.” I whispered and continued, “We will make sure you are out of here in time. I promise.”

Then I stood up and walked to the assistant who had walked back. She was standing behind a wall.

“Hey there. My son has an AP test at noon. When will the doctor be ready?” I asked and continued, “His day is so busy. He does not have time to polish his teeth later.”

“I could stand by his door and usher him to you when he is done.” She kindly said.

As she walked toward his office, the doctor’s door opened and he walked out. Together the three of us walked into the treatment room.

The assistant began to advocate for us. Before she could finish her sentence, the three of us were in a wash of the young girl’s screams. The doctor pushed past her words and sprinted to the girl, who was now surrounded by all available staff.

My son sat quietly.

I sat down. As the doctor huddled around the girl, I made eye contact with the assistant. I smiled. I pointed at my son and I pointed at my watch.

Now touching the girl’s shoulder, the doctor said, “Let’s give her a minute. Let’s have her sit up.”

As I listened, I thought, “they haven’t even started. No. Really. They have not even started working on her.”

Athens, Greece

I remembered all those tantrum days, specifically in grocery stores. My sons were two and four and then three and five years old. I remember leaving full shopping carts. I would ask my sons to calm down. I would tell them it would be ok. I would tell them,

“We are going to leave. I need you to calm down.”

Often they would. And often their screams only intensified. Then, as my sons shrieked, I would try to collectedly lift them out of the shopping cart. Then we would leave the store.

It was less than easy. Often I had no energy to go back to the store. I resented going back to the store. I also knew it would be easier in the moment to bribe them. Sometimes I did that too.

I acutely know anxiety. I was raised to fear and to think bad things would happen. I was raised to think things would not be ok. I also know how it feels as the stares of judging eyes wash over you. I have no idea what was really going on with this girl. I do not know if she has a severe mental health issue, if she has PTSD, or if she was being indulged. I do not know if it is my place to know her story. All I can do is have compassion for her, the staff and my son. I do.

Ultimately, my son is my responsibility. And in this moment, even though my son was not screaming, he was in distress.

Sugarhouse, Utah

He is graduating in four weeks. He leaves for college at the end of the summer. This is his second AP test in two days. True story: Yesterday during his Chemistry AP Test over the loud speaker the school announced that a student had committed suicide on school grounds. Shortly after that, the school counselor stopped the exam to explain. She left. Then completely shocked and broken-hearted, the kids continued their exams. We are still processing this extreme and confusing sorrow.

So, yes, as my son sat silent in that orthodontist’s office, I felt protective:

“Why can’t this be easier for him? Why won’t the screaming girl leave? Can’t her mom take her away until she gets it together?”

I do not know.

The orthodontist eventually came over. He put on his gloves and began to work. We actually really like him. As he polished my son’s teeth, I saw blood oozing. My son did not react.

The girl continued to scream. He face was purple and choked. She was hyperventilating. Her mom was crying.

As I looked at my son’s bleeding mouth, I kept thinking,

“It is bleeding everywhere. Man, that has to hurt.” I asked the doctor, “Does that swelling get better?”

“It does.” He thoughtfully said.

The doctor was done.

I remembered watching other kids get their braces off. Usually they celebrate. Today my son heard screams. I asked another assistant if there was anything else. She seemed distracted. I think we all were.

She quickly recovered and asked, “Did they give you a bag of candy? Kids like the bag of candy.”

“No.” I said.

She ran away and came back with a bag filled with Kit-Kats.

“Does he like Kit-Kats?” She asked.

“Yes.” I said.

She handed me the bag and I handed it to him.

“Thank you.” I said as my son and I left. He drove his car. I drove mine.

At home he could not find his keys.

“Mom, mom. I can’t find my keys. I need to go.” He screamed and continued to scream, “I have my test. I need to go.”

We rushed. We looked upstairs. We looked downstairs. We looked everywhere.

“Did they fall out of your pocket it?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but mom I have to go.”

Bordeaux, France

Then I looked outside. I found the keys in the ignition of his car as my other son quietly waiting for me to take him to school. (He also has an AP test at noon).

]]>Be A Better Mom By Making Peace With Your Momhttps://www.crazyus.com/2018/04/13/better-mom-making-peace-mom/
Fri, 13 Apr 2018 20:37:10 +0000https://www.crazyus.com/?post_id=7717The other day I took both boys to the orthodontist. Kyle usually drives himself, but his car was in the shop. I had just returned from the dentist. I had two fillings — both related to clenching my teeth. It was lunchtime and the waiting room was clearing out. As I sat in the orthodontist’s office all numb-mouthed, the orthodontist’s wife, who also manages the offices, came up to talk with me. “Beth, you Adams’ have had quite a year. How are you all doing?” She asked. “Yes. We have. With Eli’s broken jaw, Dave’s bad concussion and my broken […]

The other day I took both boys to the orthodontist. Kyle usually drives himself, but his car was in the shop. I had just returned from the dentist. I had two fillings — both related to clenching my teeth. It was lunchtime and the waiting room was clearing out. As I sat in the orthodontist’s office all numb-mouthed, the orthodontist’s wife, who also manages the offices, came up to talk with me.

The Day the Boys Got Braces, Salt Lake City, Utah, October, 2016

“Beth, you Adams’ have had quite a year. How are you all doing?” She asked.
“Yes. We have. With Eli’s broken jaw, Dave’s bad concussion and my broken hand, you would think we were accident prone. I like to say we are active.” I laughed and then explained why I was also talking funny. She said I didn’t have to talk, but then continued the conversation. After telling me about her six kids and telling me,

“The last one to leave home is the hardest.”

“I have the two. Kyle and Eli,” I said.
“Wow!” she said, and continued, “I just assumed you had more.”
Ok. I never hesitate to mention the truth anytime anyone, I mean anyone, including the sweet wife of my sons’ orthodontist, says anything about how I should have more children, which is,

“Yes. I wanted more. I tried for years.”

She was silent. And sure, that particular sentence usually does stop people in their tracks. My guess is within about ten seconds, she had done the math, and realized that Kyle will quickly be followed by Eli. Meaning, I am also at the end.

I am sure she was relieved when I was suddenly called back to talk to talk the orthodontist. Wait. Maybe she just #911s him when things get uncomfortable.

Anyway, with Kyle graduating from high school in two months and Eli graduating in two years, of course I have found myself extra reflective and totally weepy. My mom was right when she said,

“It will go by fast. Enjoy every moment.”

Us, Park City, Utah, December, 2007

Honestly, I think I have. Nevertheless, I still cannot believe we are here. In fact, I am shocked! Wasn’t Eli just practicing his pogo stick moves for the elementary school talent show? Didn’t Kyle just get bitten by a snake? Wasn’t Eli just learning to ride a bike? Ay-yi-yi!

Instead, here is where we are. I am surrounded by two giant and amazing man-children. Kyle is trying to figure out how he can he bleed every last moment out of high school. While he is making all the minutes count, he is also trying to decide which college to attend, how he can order a tux for prom, can he will handle life away from his girlfriend if he goes away for college. Then there is the huge concern regarding his braces. The question: will he have them off in time for graduation? We are doing everything possible to make that happen and we also understand why Kyle keeps complaining of these pounding headaches that hurt above his eyes and along his jaw.

“You might be clenching your teeth. We get it. Dude, life is stressful.”

Eli is not far behind. Not only is he planning his cross country running career, he is pining for the day his braces to come off, waiting for the snow to melt so he and the dudes can go mountain bike riding, and wondering if his dad will help him upgrade his gaming computer. Eli also thinks that college away from home might be very cool. What? Eli, man, you are my bestie. I thought you would stay close. In truth, I am certain Eli will soar near or far. We imagine he will write for Saturday Night Live or for Seth Meyers, or even the next Bob’s Burgers’ franchise.

The Boys, Avebury World Heritage Site, Avebury, Wiltshire, England

Ultimately, my love for my boys has always been and will always be fierce, protective, long winded and powerful. I will cut anyone who crosses their path. Ask the ones I have cut. They will tell you that I do not mess around. I will also do my best to give them the space they need to carve their own path. I want them to follow their dreams. I want them to fly — wherever they want to fly to. Of course I also want them to make good choices, be kind, thoughtful and gracious.

Alas, how do I transition from fiercely dedicated day-to-day mom to the mom who wants help them spread their wings? I have been worried about this moment since Dave and I started making babies. In fact, I always believed that if I modeled healthy boundaries and relationships that the boys and I would find healthy ways to ebb and flow. I always thought it was about maintaining a dedicated relationship with them. I like my sons, so that is easy to do. I also think Kyle and Eli know I am always there for them. I am loyal and I have been their strongest advocate. For them, I have and I will fight fire, monsters, bullies, or stupid people. I also see the importance and the need for them to live their own life, even if it is a life that I cannot imagine. I truly believe that they need to stand in their space, not mine.

Further, I was convinced that if I modeled a healthy and reciprocal relationship with my mom and my mother-in-law, that my relationship with my boys would remain strong. It was not hard. Dave’s mom and my mom are good people and are important to me. What they both do not realize (and do not need to realize) is that I spent way too much time trying to make sure they were happy, or better, I spent way too much time trying not to hurt their feelings, get along with them, and to accommodate them. But then, I began to see that maybe I missed the most significant lesson of all. In my attempt to show them my sons that I love my mom and mother-in-law, I forgot to stand in my own space, or better, I made accommodations and concessions for the women in my own life thinking it would reflect on how my sons treat me (kind of selfish really).

The boys back in my blogging days, Salt Lake City, Utah

For my mom, I stopped blogging. Ha ha, any of you early bloggers out there may think I stopped blogging because Heather Armstrong (Dooce.com) and I had a fight a million years ago. I wish it were that easy. I stopped blogging because it hurt my mom’s feelings. Again and again she told me how my words hurt her. Then I let her feedback dictate the terms of what I wrote. Ultimately, I did not how to reconcile integrity in my writing with breaking my mom’s heart so I stopped blogging. Sure, in her defense, maybe I could have been more mature about how I shared. I think if I had trusted myself, I would have gained that maturity. I think I have. I bet if I had kept writing, I would have arrived at a place where my mom would feel less pain and more pride regarding the words I put out to the world. If not, at least I would have learned to stand in my own space, not hers. At least I would have the confidence to know that I am not trying to hurt her. Instead I was weak and I did not have faith in either of us to grow. As a result, I was careful. I went out of my way not to hurt my mom’s feelings. And of course, by trying not to hurt her feelings, I always managed to hurt them anyway. My guess is that writing this will may hurt her feelings now.

In the end, our relationship did evolve. Instead of sharing myself, I closed myself off. Now I simply avoid any sort of complicated interaction. I sincerely try to agree with and support her. I respect her perspective and try to reassure her that things are ok. Upon reflection, I only wish I would have seen that had I continued blogging, we would have been ok. And actually, I think my mom and I were much closer way back when we were dialoguing about how I was hurting her online.

So in attempt to learn from my own experiences, I want to give that openness to my sons, even when it stings. Wish me luck.

My mother-in-law near the Cliffs of Moher, Ireland

Now onto my mother-in-law. I value her opinion probably to a crazy fault. She feels very differently about blogging than my mom. Instead of wanting things private, she is outspoken, often conveying how broken-hearted she is that I do not write about her online.

Here is a little story to illustrate why writing about family is difficult gymnastics routine at best, and why I understood my mom’s needs for privacy. Truth and perspective are messy:

…There we were. We were at the end of a long trip. My mother-in-law still insists she paid for all of it. She didn’t. I know even the suggestion that she did not pay for our entire trip infuriates her. My guess is the fact that I am writing that she did not pay for everything will bother her more than anything else I write.

Here is the thing. She takes both Dave’s brother and sister on trips, Mediterranean cruises, and more trips. She also helps them out a ton financially. We have always been grateful that she has been a position to lend Dave’s siblings a hand. That is a gift in of itself. We are also glad she can take Dave’s brother and sister on these fun adventures. In fact, we have always been cool with the generosity she shows them. This trip was her gift.

This trip was her gift.We are grateful for her gift. It was thoughtful. She was thoughtful. Unfortunately, I think she undermines her generosity. For instance, often when she takes say Dave’s brother to Spain, or his sister on another Alaskan cruise, she brings up that this one trip as a justification as to why everything is equal among the siblings. First. Let me be clear. We do not care that she takes Dave’s siblings on adventures. Second, No. It is not equitable. And third, it will never be equitable. And fourth, we do not care. We are happy she can do this for Dave’s siblings. Ok. I sound a little bitchy. I feel a little bitchy. And actually to move beyond my bitchy and to give her gift credibility, I think it is ok to be honest and acknowledge that we paid for part of it ourselves. Like for starters, we paid for our airfare to get on said trip [wink, wink]. And just because we paid for some of the trip in no way undermines that she was generous. She was. And being honest about the parameters, keeps it real, keeps it valid, and allows us to hold space not only for her gift, but what we did to0. Does that make any sense? And do you understand why writing publicly about my mother-in-law may not be the best plan? Throwing caution and common sense to the wind, I will take an even deeper dive, and continue our story (and yes, it includes her).

Dave, his mom and the boys, Hampton Court Palace, Molesey, East Molesey, England, July 2014

It was July, 2014 and we were staying in Killarney, Ireland. It was our last day at our quirky bed and breakfast. We were sitting at breakfast in a room full of hotel guests. I suggested we stay at this bed and breakfast because I know my mother in law loves quaint bed and breakfasts. As breakfast finished, my mother-in-law looked up at me and proclaimed,

“Beth, everyday I read your blog. Everyday you write about Davy and the boys. You never say anything about me. You never post any pictures of me. I feel invisible.” (If you have read up until here, can you see why?)

I felt embarrassed that she publicly called me out this way. I felt sad that I had made her sad. Then she sat there quietly glarring at me.

I responded. “I do not write about friends or family. It is kind of my rule. I tend to hurt people when I convey my perspective.”

I paused and followed with, “This has been a complicated trip. I am tired and edgy. And I do not want to write anything that will hurt you.”

She assured,

“You already have!” I wanted to say, (but didn’t),

“Seriously. I know where opening my mouth gets me.”

Dave and his mom at the Cliffs of Moher, Lislorkan North, Liscannor, Co. Clare, Ireland

I wanted to show her what I had privately journaled (and why I try to follow the don’t-publicly-hurt-people rule). I should have shown her all the pictures I had quietly taken of her and her son. I refrained back then. I will share our story now:

Dave, Easy E and his mom in York, England, July, 2014

We were at a little family owned pub restaurant in Eastern Wales a few miles from Tintern Abbey. My mother-in-law asked that we order three desserts to share. The yummy desserts arrived. My mother-in-law sat at the table while Dave and the boys first stood and then eventually sat around her. She took a few large bites. Abruptly she swatted at Eli.

“Stop. Stop. STOP!” she proclaimed.

She decided Eli had taken too much of the mutually shared desserts and told him as much. I was watching. Regardless, reality had no impact. She looked at Eli, who was standing there holding a clean spoon, and assumed he was the one stealing all of her precious dessert. Both Dave and Kyle had taken a few bites. Still Eli had not had taken any. After she started scolding Eli (again), Dave and Kyle stopped eating. Undeterred, like a fast move train, she was convinced so she scolded and berated Eli (age 11), the youngest person in our group. Dave, snapped, asking her to stop.

“Mom, he is not eating your dessert! He has not had any dessert. I thought you suggested we all share. Mom. Leave him alone.”

She would not stop yelling at Eli. Dave circled her and demanded she leave Eli alone, urging,

“Mom, knock it off! Eli is not eating your dessert! Really! You need to stop this now!”

Steadfast, she persisted, gobbling up her dessert and reprimanding Eli (who was now terrified and standing a few feet from the table). I honestly thought my head would explode. I wanted to jump across the table and throttle her. I wanted to scream, “LEAVE MY SON ALONE!”

In that exact moment, a story she often tells ran through my mind. It goes like this. When Dave was very young his aunt rebuked him for eating popsicle in her living room. I remember how upset my mother-in-law was as she recalled this story to me. Dave does not remember the story. Maybe Eli will forget this moment. I hope so. My mother-in-law never forgets. She shares it with me almost every time I see her. Surely she would correlate, right? No. In this moment she was all tunnel vision. Someone was eating her dessert and she was going to fight til the death. In this moment, she was unable to see how her tunnel vision was hurting her grandson. As tears quietly fell down Eli’s cheeks, he motioned to me. Even though I see her as an authority figure and the mother of my husband,I needed to rescue Eli. I needed to resist my polite inclinations and fight. I needed to set a boundary. Angry, heartbroken and frustrated, I firmly asked her to stop. She swatted back,

“Well. Then. Beth. Eli needs to stop eating ALL of my dessert.”

“He is not eating ALL of your dessert!” I firmly said.

At that, Dave and I immediately stood up and asked the boys to follow us. We walked over to the backside of the little Welsh restaurant. In his traumatized frustration, Eli said,

“I keep trying to be grandma’s friend. She never listens. She wants it her way. I don’t understand. I am done.”

We took this photo behind the inn after leaving the table. Us. The Fountain Inn, Trelleck Grange, Llanishen, Chepstow (Tintern, Wales)

Last summer (June 2017) Dave, the boys and I found our way back in Eastern Wales. We made our way to Tintern Abbey and decided we would find our way to that little inn.

“Hey Eli let’s find that little inn. You can have all the dessert you want. You can have it all to yourself.”

We found the inn. We had built this place up in our memory, imagining the little farm in the back, the great food and the welcoming innkeeper. As luck would have it (or not), we arrived too early for dinner, which meant we were also too early for dessert. The dispassionate owner could not care less about our pilgrimage. Dinner would be served in two hours. He told us we could wait or we could leave. We decided to pass, and probably ate dinner from food that was purchased at a grocery store. Nevertheless, we were there for Eli. And Eli knew it. Eli still wants his dessert. We oblige regularly.

Here is why I am sharing this story now. Since that moment in Killarney, I realized that holding it all in or letting it all out publicly has no impact on the health of my relationships. I cannot control wether my mom likes what I write, wether my mother-in-law is happy with me, or wether Kyle and Eli’s future loves are cool with me. Now taking a huge breath I see that what impacts my relationships is communication, trust, a willingness to listen, accept, heal, and to forgive (on all sides).

Us, Northern Italy driving along Lake Maggiore, April, 2018

Just like my mom and Dave’s mom are responsible for their relationships with their children, I am the mom of these two boys. I am responsible to them. Meaning, my relationship with them is not dependent on how I do or don’t get along with my mom and mother-in-law. And as far as my relationship with Dave’s mom goes, I think my mother-in-law is pretty thick skinned and I should trust her. Things are not black and white. If she wants me to write about her, then I should. Hey, she might even be amused by her hoarding-desserts story or she may hate what I say. (Oh and yes, Plural hoarding desserts stories. We discovered hoarding desserts was kind of her thing. ). Maybe if I am brave enough to write, she might soften when she remembers that at the end of this trip I asked Dave to give her his first class upgrade so she could have a special flight home.

The boys and Dave’s mom at the Belfast Airport, July, 2014

Dave, Easy E and I on the plane from Belfast to Newark. Dave not only gave up his first class upgrade (to his mom), he sat in the middle. He is also wearing Kyle’s shirt because we were out of clothes. Love him!

Now back to my stuffing my stories way down my brain hole. See, what I also did by keeping this story and all the other stories hidden, is hide a part of myself, which is totally counter to what I want to teach my boys. I have encouraged them to stand in who they are. I have encouraged them to give me feedback, even the shitty feedback that either breaks my heart or calls me out. On several occasions, for instance, both boys (and Dave) have suggested that I talk (explain) way too much. We may disagree on this point, but not only should they be able to give me this feedback, I should be willing to listen and consider their perspective. Guess what? They are teaching me to be more succinct. Yay them.

And here is the big one. Along the way both boys have pleaded with Dave and me to stop fighting. (Dave and I are robust and impassioned, expletive-laden communicators, by the way). Recently, it was Eli who said to both of us,

“You need to knock it off. You are acting like bickering children.”

Eli was right.

Me and Easy I am sure this is another moment after he told Dave & I to chill out. The Tate Modern, London, England, August, 2017

But because I have been in a pattern of hiding who I am, I hid an opportunity to publicly share the fact that marriage is super hard, but marriage can also be really good. I have hidden the growth we have made as a family. Man, I love them. I have hidden so much like. And really, I am very sorry for hiding.

Ultimately, what I realize is getting along with Kyle’s girlfriend or Eli’s future wife is not dependent on how Dave’s mom gets along with me. Just like I want my sons to carve their own path, I need to trust my own path too. I adore my sons and hope we will figure out how to stay close around all of life’s turns. I hope do not annoy Kyle’s girlfriend. I probably will. But I also get it and I do not mind. Because the people they love are important to me!

NOW I hope it is ok that I end by leaving a personal message to Kyle and Eli here.

Barafundle Bay, Wales (near Stackpole Quay)

Boys, you are my heart!

In the end and moving forward, I apologize for hiding me. There is no shame in my past or in your future. I think it is ok that I miss those days of yesteryear. Dudes, you were very cute with all of your sweet dance moves and late night jokes. I also LOVE the men you are becoming. You are both very cool.

A little about me: personally, I think it is ok that I voted for Obama and that it took a very long time to finish college. It is also ok that I am still sad that I did not live in the dorms and it is ok to say that I wish had gone to a small Midwestern liberal arts college. Ok. Sure. That means I probably would not have met Dad. And maybe that implies that yes, there would not be you. So really, because I am saying it (writing it) out loud, I am also able to come full circle and see (and say) that I ended up absolutely where I wanted to be — with you (and dad).

Please know that if you end up going to BYU, or voting for Mike Lee, not only will I still love and accept you, I will listen to you — always.

Me, Ville de Cahors, France, August, 2018

Mostly, please learn from me. I do not want to let my fear of losing you force me to hide myself anymore. My moms are strong women. Moving forward, my mom can deal with stories about our life, or she can tell me she hates my writing voice and how much pain I cause her. Nevertheless, we will both be ok. My mother-in-law and your grandma can continue to think Eli is a dessert thief, and that I am the Second-Amendment-repealing, antifa, liberal, atheist woman-who-stole-her-best-friend, your dad. But guess what? She will also be ok. I love them and I love you. And if I want you guys to be ok and feel safe being yourselves, and if I want to maintain my relationship with you, then I need to stop being so afraid of losing my mom and Dad’s mom, or mostly, I need to not be afraid of losing you.

Get it? Be you! Trust yourselves. Remember that life is a journey. No one expects you to be perfect ever (especially not out of the gate).

]]>Athens, Greece: I hope the people who stole our stuff enjoy Eli’s math homework and Kyle’s completed chemistry labshttps://www.crazyus.com/2017/11/28/athens-greece-hope-people-stole-stuff-enjoy-elis-math-homework-kyles-completed-chemistry-labs/
Wed, 29 Nov 2017 04:45:24 +0000https://www.crazyus.com/?post_id=7652FADE IN: Flight from Munich, Germany to Chicago, Illinois I noticed my phone was almost dead and my adapter was gone. Dave was sleeping. I woke him so I could scold him for taking our one remaining charger. It is mine. He looked at me groggy-eyed and said, “You insisted I use it.” Immediately, I stopped myself. I wanted to bite his head off (literally). Instead, I bit my tongue (again, literally), and apologized for jumping to conclusions. Then Dave sweetly apologized for not giving my charger back. I am angry. I am angry at Dave. That is my uncomfortable […]

I noticed my phone was almost dead and my adapter was gone. Dave was sleeping. I woke him so I could scold him for taking our one remaining charger. It is mine.

He looked at me groggy-eyed and said,

“You insisted I use it.”

Immediately, I stopped myself. I wanted to bite his head off (literally). Instead, I bit my tongue (again, literally), and apologized for jumping to conclusions. Then Dave sweetly apologized for not giving my charger back. I am angry. I am angry at Dave. That is my uncomfortable truth. I am struggling to forgive. For that I am sorry.

FADE OUT.

Almond Milk, Athens, Greece

After twenty-five hours in transit, we arrived in Athens, Greece, I was excited and surprisingly awake. We made our way to baggage claim, picked up our luggage, which included one case of Costco Brand Almond milk. Because Almond milk is not always easy to find, that our experiment worked, which was to check a case of almond milk and have it safely travel across the world. With luggage in hand, we walked to the car rentals, stopping to buy two overpriced bottles of water. Across the way we noted the pharmacy we visited the last time we were in Greece. We were all confidant as we heartedly proclaimed,

“Knock on wood. No one had a strange allergic reaction on the plane. This is going to be a good trip.”

Then we rented our unusually nice car and were on our way. As we drove there was a light rain and sunny skies in the distance.

Our Athens, Greece Rental Car

Driving into Athens, Greece

That is when Dave happily proclaimed,

“Look at that exceptional rainbow.”

He was correct. The rainbow was exquisite. It was a beautiful day and we were finally on our adventure. Our Thanksgiving trips have become a lovely tradition. It is Kyle’s senior year of high school, and this may be our last. Consequently, to say I was excited for our time together, is a complete understatement.

Our ferry to Crete was leaving at 9PM. The boys and I would have been ok sleeping, but Dave was determined that we do something purposeful. I suggested some loose alternatives. Nope. Dave needed solid specifics (not like ambling jet-lagged around Athens is a solid play, by the way). Dave won and we drove into Athens. Athens is actually pretty cool and very gritty. It has some of the best graffiti and street art I have ever seen. The food is not bad either. We were there last March 2016. And as cool as the street art is, the boys and I did not want to go back. So again I suggested we do something else. Dave emphatically shot back,

“Like what?”
“How about we find something on our drive to the ferry?” I responded.
“Like what? (He said several more times.)

The warning signs were screaming. I firmly and repeatedly suggested we pull over and look at TripAdviser and Google Maps. It did not matter. I know Dave and knew he would not yield, unless, that is I presented him with say a business plan, a plan that included a Powerpoint presentation with accompanying handouts. I was very tired and finally gave in.

We made our way into the city and was completely relieved a few minutes later when we were unable to find parking. I hoped Dave would follow his typical behavior in these situations, which is to get frustrated and eventually give up. Alas, I completely underestimated Dave’s resolve. The lack of parking only served to fuel his determination. We kept driving. I stopped looking for parking. I mean pulled out my phone and searched for alternatives. Dave’s frustration mounted and I saw an opportunity. For a split second I felt like I might have a chance. I began saying things such as,

“Hey, why don’t we just go for a drive, go to the grocery store and enjoy our day,” and “hey, we are so tired. Athens is crowded and dirty, why don’t we do something more relaxing?”

My words only served to solidify his will. We were now in an unfamiliar neighborhood, a mile from the center of town. That is when Dave found a spot. As he parked I plainly said,

“We should do something else. I do not think this is safe. I think someone will break into our car. This does not feel right. Please. Dave. Please, let’s push pause and just go. Really, Dave let’s not park here.”

In response to my words Dave blurted,

“Well, what else are we going to do?”

Here is there deal. I know whom I married. I am annoyingly flexible and paralyzing considerate to Dave’s steadfast vision. I am truly the Ernie to Dave’s Bert. In truth, we are a great match. And most days my ability to bob and weave is the perfect complement to Dave’s clear focus. Yet I still wonder if Dave knows or has considered why he is unable to easily shift his expectations. Sometimes I fight his fixed determination. Because Dave has great ideas, most days I happily go with it. Ultimately, it was Dave’s clear resolve that built a beautiful home and has spent the last few weeks tirelessly building our addition. Steadfastness is just what he does and a strong resolve serves him well. It serves us all well.

I firmly believe that his steadfastness is an inherited trait. Dave’s mom is a force. She is single-minded and often unflinchingly fixates on an idea or a perception. As a result, when she gets an idea in her head, there is very little, if anything, anyone can do to knock her off course. Because we know this, when we traveled with her a few years ago, for instance, we repeatedly asked her with the kind of directness that seems unkind,

“No. Please do not buy the London pass. We will not use it. It will go to waste.”

Nevertheless and undeterred, she bought the London pass. Of course she was surprised and also very sad when we did not use it. Kyle also shares this same single-mindedness. In fact, I would argue that their relentless is what makes the three of them such a success.

…As we pulled up to the parking spot, my heart sank. Ok. I think I have made the point that Dave is a force. And a jet-lagged me did not have the energy to fight that force. Nevertheless, the neighborhood seemed sketchy so I pleaded,

“I am not sure, but this does not feel right. I do not think we should park here.”

Parking our rental car in Athens, Greece

Parking our rental car in Athens, Greece

Dave did not respond. As he pulled into the spot, a dude on a beaten up motorcycle pulled up next to Dave’s car door. It was weird. We all said it was weird. Then Dave finished parking the car. That is when I grabbed our passports and shoved them in my purse. Then I covered my backpack with my black jacket and shoved it as far out of sight as I could. As I got out of the car, I said,

“Is there anywhere we can hide the kids’ backpacks? How can we get them safely out of sight?”

Dave snapped,

“Like where?”

I took a deep breath and asked the boys to hide their packs as best they could.

A screenshot of the Google Map where I marked our fateful parking spot, Athens, Greece

A zoomed out view of the screenshot I took of the Google Map marking where we parked, Athens, Greece

I should have done more. I should have screamed like a crazy person and demanded that we get back in the car. I should have been more kind and willing to deal with Dave’s lack-of-a-solid-plan disappointment. I was tired so was he. Instead, I caved.

Dave shut the hatch or our hatchback our rental car. As I walked around our car, I noticed his backpack up against the back window. Then I saw the bright orange priority labels on the Almond milk case.

“Hey, why don’t we pull those orange tags off,” I said followed by, “I just don’t think that is a good place for your backpack.”

Dave pulled the orange tags off. I should have put his backpack on the floor. I regret that I did not try to shove all the backpacks under the seats. In fairness to Dave, we travel often and all over the world. Most of the time we rent cars. As a necessity and on travel days, we have left our luggage fully exposed. Consequently, logic and experience would dictate we were safe. Alas, it was never about not having a plan. I knew we should not park where we did. My gut feelings (and Dave’s, because later he would tell me he had a bad feeling too), could be dismissed as jet-lag, right? Wrong.

Life Imitating Signs, Athens, Greece

So I let go and on a random Athens street we left our luggage exposed. Then we walked into town. I often walk with Kyle as Eli loves to walk with Dave. Kyle would probably like to walk with the guys, but is always kind and waits for me as I pause and take things in. I am grateful for the care and friendship Kyle gives me. It is often during these times where Kyle and I get real. We had a pretty long walk toward the Acropolis to the neighborhood known as Monastiraki that lies in its shadow. As we walked, I said the following:

“Kyle. I think someone is going to break into our car. As a precaution I put our passports in my purse. At least if all of our stuff is stolen, we will be able to get out of the country.”

He agreed. I continued,

“I hope Dad will listen and trust my witch sense. I hope this moment impacts him so in the future he will be willing to go off course. You know I don’t think we should leave our car. None of us do, but here we are.” Then I paused and said, “I really hope you and Eli do not have to pay for this lesson.”

In hindsight we should have at least paid for parking, Athens, Greece

Just a few blocks from the car, as we were passing a bus stop thronged with tired commuters, a gaunt young man that kind of looked like Charles Manson was bouncing erratically from one person to the next with a menacing air. As we approached, he fixed his gaze on Eli, and reached out to him with his hand, holding a lit cigarette. Dave tried to position himself between them, and hustled Eli along, looking back after they were out of his orbit, to see that the man make a similar aggressive gesture toward Kyle and me.

The antics of this street lunatic left us all a little rattled. Another warning sign?

Half way down the block, we noticed a group of heavily armed policemen on the corner, looking at the direction of the disruptive crazy man. As we walked toward them, we hoped they might intervene, but they just kind of stood around. As we passed them, we noticed a small bulletproof police kiosk on one side of the street, and a large schoolbus-sized riot van, with more cops milling around outside. They didn’t seem to be there for any particular reason, other than the fact that the area was a plaza and public park that seemed to be a decent place for locals to hang out on a Sunday afternoon.

Again it was clear that a neighborhood where 20 police officers just hang around in a group might imply that it would be a sketchy place to park your car.

Eli, Quick Pitta, Athens, Greece

Kyle, Quick Pitta, Athens, Greece

The rest of our walk to the Monastiraki was uneventful and Athens was better than I expected. We ate at Quick Pitta. I wanted to go back to the car. Dave wanted to keep walking up the hill so we could get an Acropolis view. I love the view and was happy to oblige. By then I figured if the damage was done at least I could enjoy this moment. We walked along tiny roads and paths covered in vivid graffiti. At the top we could see the Acropolis across the way. It was the time of day where the sun is a perfect sepia light. We were amazed with feral cats and tiny churches. We made our way back. I was looking forward to the ferry and seeing Crete the next day.

Athens, Greece

Athens, Greece

Athens, Greece

Kyle and I were walking side by side. As we neared the car, I cautioned,

“I will let Dad walk ahead so if the car was broken into, he can see it first.”

Dave and Eli approached the car. It is painfully comical to recall how many times the boys and I urged Dave not to go into Athens, yet no amount of humor can erase what I heard next:

“They got our backpacks! Mom. Everything is gone.” Eli screamed.

He kept screaming and his screams turned into painful tears.

Note the case of Almond Milk in the upper righthand corner, Athens, Greece

Theft in Athens, Greece

Kyle walked up — stunned. I think he is still stunned. I watched as an eerie sadness enveloped both boys. In that exact second I knew the direction of our trip would change. They had been violated. The things that were most personal to them had been ripped away. I did not stop it. I did not protect them. I should have fought harder.

Eli was pacing and frantic. Kyle was stoic. I was shouting at Dave,

“Dave, I asked you not to park here. I pleaded with you. I demanded. You [insert advanced expletive here] refused. You [insert all caps advanced expletive here] REFUSED!”

“I know. I know. I know.” Dave cried out.

“Why don’t you listen? Why do you get so fixed?” I screamed again. “Why are you so rigid?”

I noticed people walking by and looking at me as I screamed. Our moment is dark and very sad. My boys watched me scream at their dad. They watched their dad comprehend his responsibility.

Eli pleaded.

“Mom! Dad! Everything is gone. Everything.” Eli reached into the car and cut his hand badly on the broken glass.

Dave was now more frantic. Eli was scared and sobbing. Kyle was numb. Then Dave cried out,

“I do not know what to do. I do not know what to do.”

I had no idea what to do either. One of us suggested he find the police. I figured the police would not be able to do anything, but I also understand the importance of a police report.

Dave remembered the police kiosk around the corner, and thought maybe we could ask them for help, so he ran off in that direction, leaving us at the car. As we were sitting there for a long time, Dave was having a frustrating, exhausting, and bizarre interaction with Greece’s criminal justice system.

The cops on the corner at the bulletproof kiosk had no interest in coming to the crime scene, despite having nothing in particular to do. They informed Dave he needed to go to the police station to report the crime. They helped him find it on the map. It was over in the other direction, about a ten-minute walk. Dave ran over, taking several wrong turns on his way, and finally found a darkened building with another kiosk out front, the cop on duty informed him that he should go to the third floor to make his report. Entering the building, there was no lobby: just closed doors and a dark staircase. At the landing of each dimly lit level, there was another closed door and small placards written in Greek. No markings identifying anything or looking particularly police-like. As he entered the door on the third floor, he was in a shabby, mostly empty room, with a hallway down one side and a heavy green door with an opening in it at chest-level. As Dave entered the room, a man’s face peered out of the opening, and he beckoned Dave over. As Dave approached, saying,

“Someone broke into our car,”

he got a better look a the man and saw through the opening that there were several men in the small room behind the green door, he realized that small room was a holding cell. He turned around and walked down the hall, and saw an office that looked just like the set of “Barney Miller” or some other 1970s police TV show, with a couple of hard-boiled middle aged guys in shirts and ties sitting at small desks, and a young woman with a holster on her hip. The woman stood up, and Dave explained why he was there. Like most younger people in Greece we’d met in our travels there, she spoke decent English. She explained that he needed to report the crime at the office of the “tourist police.” She typed the address into Google Maps on his iPhone. The tourist police office was another 12 minute walk in the opposite direction of our car.

When Dave arrived at the tourist police, the man at the desk was a fatherly type with salt and pepper hair. If you wanted to cast a Greek police officer in a movie, you’d end up with this guy for sure. As Dave explained the events of that afternoon, he listened with weary familiarity.

“Athens wasn’t always like this,” he said.

He and his younger colleague gave Dave a stack of forms to fill out. While Dave filled out the forms, he and I had been carrying on a sporadic conversation over text. Eventually, the policeman realized that Dave’s family wasn’t there, and asked where is your wife and the car? He was surprised that we hadn’t packed up the car and all come to the police station together. Dave explained that we had tried to get help nearby, but had been sent to progressively farther-away places. The man suggested that Dave go get his family and the car and return. They would need to take some time typing up the police report anyway. was feeling helpless and panicked, so he just obeyed each time and went to the next place.

In the meantime, the sun was setting, it was getting cold and Eli was calming down.

Kind Strangers Helping Eli, Athens, Greece

Two men walked by and then returned a few minutes later with medical supplies. They walked up, and to clean Eli’s bleeding hand, dumped an entire bottle of Betadine on, then dressed his wounds. Eli’s hand looked much worse than it was. The men did not speak English so they called someone who did. On their flip phone I tried to speak with another kind stranger.

His English was not great. I do not speak Arabic or Greek. I assured him we were ok.

They left and came back with two bottles of water.

Kyle asked if he could go for a walk. I said,

“I need you here.”

People walked by, stared. Some stopped and asked (mostly in Greek) what happened. One woman scolded me, pointed several times, and rolled her eyes. Another man admonished,

“You parked in the bad-est of the bad parts of Greece.”

He could not emphasize this fact strongly enough. We were like,
“Dude, we know.”

Regardlesss, no one seemed to understand that we were robbed. Instead their eyes were drawn to the pool of Betadine surrounded by discarded gauze pads. It did not help that the Betadine looked like a blood bath. A few were kind. All of them were foreigners, that is to say, non-Greek. I know this because they wanted us to know that they were not Greek. I appreciated the respect the showed us as they walked up to Kyle, asked what happened and asked what they could do.

By now Dave had been gone for some time. I was at a loss. Kyle’s phone was dead and their chargers and charger cords were gone. I knew we would miss it so I tried to get online so I could cancel our ferry. It was 8:00 AM in Utah. Eli was calm and helpful. Kyle was still quiet. I decided to text my friend Beth to see if she could get online for me. I sent her the following stream of texts:

She did not respond so I texted my friend, Emily. I did not hear back from Emily either, and wondered if she was having the same reaction.

That is when I realized Beth would never answer the phone, but instead assume my phone had been stolen. I texted:

“I am going to call you now”

It took two calls for her to answer. And yes, she thought it was a scammer.

She texted me the information I needed. Then I made the calls. While making calls and talking to Beth and now Emily, Eli stood by my side deconstructing our situation. I love Eli’s awareness. He processes quickly and feels profoundly. Because he does, is well adjusted and heals fast.

By now we were freezing. Dave was still gone. Kyle seemed more relaxed as he talked to passers by. The two men came back with more water and checked on Eli’s hand. One of them looked at me and said,

“No English.” Then he pointed at himself and said, “Algeria,” and pointed at his friend, “He too.” Then he pulled up his flip phone again and handed it to me. I told the man on the other line that we were ok. As the two men walked off they said, “Algeria! No Greece.”

After what seemed like forever, Dave came back.

The boys outside of the Athens, Greece Tourist Police Station

The boys at the Athens, Greece Tourist Police Station

Eli’s injurred arm, Athens, Greece

He told us that the police were making a report and we need to drive back to the station so they could see the rental car. Kyle and I spread hoodies over the broken glass and sat in the back. We parked illegally (as per the policeman’s request), and went inside. As we sat on the couch, the policeman kindly admonished,

“Greece is beautiful. Don’t let this ruin your trip. You get away from Athens and you are more safe.”

As he walked away, I looked at Dave and said,

“He does not speak for us. You know that, right? Of course Dave agreed.

The boys, and Harry the police officer, at the Athens, Greece Tourist Police Station

We were at the police station for a very long time. They had a computer and a phone that we could use. Dave quickly got online to cancel the stolen credit cards and try to deal with our reservations at the ferry and hotels. Kyle and I shared my phone so he could talk to his girlfriend and I could text Emily. Emily and Eli have a great connection and her energy is what we needed. At one point Kyle escorted me to the scary bathroom in the basement. Eli passed out on a couch. Dave and I had several tear-filled heart-to-hearts. Both boys pleaded that we get out of Greece. They were afraid. Normally I push through or assure them things would be ok. Somehow, and even if there is a lot of discomfort, they always are. This time I knew making them stay was wrong. I also knew that logistically and financially it would be hard to stay. Just to be sure we were doing the right thing, I suggested several options like making our way to Zurich to connect with our return flights. Sure, I thought that may be impossible, but maybe the airline would take pity on us. Then I suggested we drive out of Greece to another country. I realized with most of our things stolen how impractical either of these options would be. That is when I suggested we see if we could fly home a few days early.

Dave at the Tourist Police Station, Athens, Greece

Dave made the call. That is when adrenaline faded and pure, beautiful emotion took over. I cried as I watched him sob,

“We were robbed. What they took has made it impossible for us to stay.”

I assumed they would give us a few days (like I had planned). The call agent told him there was a flight at 6AM. It was now almost 10PM. Kindly, United Airlines waived all fees and told us,

“We need to get you home.”

Me at the Athens, Greece Tourist Police Station

Kyle outside of the Athens, Greece Tourist Police Station

We found a hotel, took showers for the first time in three days, and at 4AM this morning we left for home.

Now we are on our last flight traveling from Chicago to Salt Lake City. It is about 9:45 PM. The lights just came on. Over the loudspeaker I hear,

“We have a medical emergency. Do we have any doctor’s, nurses, medical personal, EMTs, or first responders on board? If so, please ring your call light.”

The flight attendant just made the announcement again. Then I heard a call light from somewhere on the plane. I have no idea what is happening. We heard nothing more. For the remainder of the flight there is an unusual amount of turbulence.

And maybe flying through turbulence is a good place to end. Because life is filled with turbulent moments. When we checked into our Athens Hotel, we told Dimitri, the desk agent about our robbery. He looked at Kyle and I and said,

“You have like nine or ten of these hard (turbulent) moments in your life. The sooner you learn how to move through them, the better you will be.”

Dimitri has a point.

A little family therapy. Us, Salt Lake City, Utah

Now a week out we are ok. Dave and I are ok. The boys are ok. This week has been hard. Nevertheless, I think we are closer. What I like about us is we are both willing to stretch. That is why we have agreed to listen more, especially when someone pushes pause. I love him for that. I love Dave — always.

]]>Questival: 24 hour scavenger hunthttps://www.crazyus.com/2017/10/21/questival-24-hour-scavenger-hunt/
Sat, 21 Oct 2017 15:53:44 +0000https://www.crazyus.com/?post_id=7645We started yesterday at 7pm, and aside from a short sleep break, we’ve been Questing at the Questival ever since. In this photo, we were tasked with making a cake on someone’s face (adding lighted candles was our idea). Then someone had to lick the cake. PS Ultimately, we finished in 10th place out of 419 teams.

]]>We started yesterday at 7pm, and aside from a short sleep break, we’ve been Questing at the Questival ever since. In this photo, we were tasked with making a cake on someone’s face (adding lighted candles was our idea). Then someone had to lick the cake.

]]>Sexual Abuse Did Not Start In A Vacuumhttps://www.crazyus.com/2017/10/14/sexual-abuse-did-not-start-in-a-vacuum/
Sat, 14 Oct 2017 23:20:48 +0000https://www.crazyus.com/?post_id=7605I specifically chose not to include the more profound abuse I have experienced. Unfortunately the experiences I included here are quietly commonplace. When I am all alone and safe, the phrase I think of are “culturally insidious, misuse of power and epidemic abuses.” In fact, I think the small acts of petty domination, verbal threatening, and entitled abuses of power have become (almost) ordinary. As a society we are not just guilty of re-victimizing women who have suffered horrific sexual assault. We are guilty of letting casual dominance slide until it is commonplace. My guess is most men who commit […]

I specifically chose not to include the more profound abuse I have experienced. Unfortunately the experiences I included here are quietly commonplace. When I am all alone and safe, the phrase I think of are “culturally insidious, misuse of power and epidemic abuses.” In fact, I think the small acts of petty domination, verbal threatening, and entitled abuses of power have become (almost) ordinary. As a society we are not just guilty of re-victimizing women who have suffered horrific sexual assault. We are guilty of letting casual dominance slide until it is commonplace. My guess is most men who commit sexual misconduct do not start off by raping women. In fact, I would argue that sexual assault may actually be an outgrowth of entitled people throwing their weight around and misusing their power.

…There I was. In a college classroom.

After the professor asked for feedback and promised he was open to whatever we had to say, I spoke up. Class finished. Two classmates and I stood in the hallway talking. My professor walked up. I asked him a question about my upcoming paper. Instead of answering, he asked me to follow him onto the elevator — alone. Obediently I followed. The doors shut. We stood in silence. Several long seconds later, we arrived on his floor. He stepped out and I followed him into his office. He shut the door behind me. I sat down across from him. Before I could ask my question, he interrupted. Assuming he forgot why we were there, I gave him the benefit when he began berating me for speaking up in class. Nevertheless, I was blindsided. He told me it was not my place to give feedback and that I should know better than to challenge him. Several times he admonished making claims such as, “Beth, your words are unacceptable. Do not embarrass me in public again.” On and on he went until his words blurred into one powerful message:

“Beth, you are bad. I am good. Do not challenge my power!”

With my sense of right and wrong knocked off its axis, tears screamed down my face. I needed this to end. Defending myself only incited him further. I was breathless, frustrated and needed him to stop telling me how bad I was. I needed to get out of the room. Instead of realizing I could just get up and leave, I found myself apologizing. My apologies only made things worse. I was trapped. He was angry. I don’t know if it was my wet face or my silence. Eventually he finished. I left. We never talked about my assignment. A month or so later, I sent him an apology.

…Years earlier I was working on campus at a job I loved. My boss at the time was giving a tour to some outside visitors. I had no idea I was in his way. Regardless, he forcefully grabbed me by the upper arm and held it tight. Then he abruptly yanked me from where I was standing. As I stood there stunned, he looked back and admonished:

“Next, time you are in my way. I need you to move.”

I actually knew what he did was not right, but I had no idea what he did was criminal battery. I did nothing. Later that semester I withdrew from some of my classes. The secretary at the time asked me to fill in for her for a few hours when her father-in-law passed away. Of course I said yes. A week or so later that same boss sat me down in his office. He asked me not to speak. Here is what he said,

“Beth, by working for the secretary you were deceitful and are unworthy. I could fire you. Instead, I will ask you not to return next semester.”

I make no excuses, yet had no idea that I could not work if I was not a full time student.

“Although the church discourages ‘any kind of sexual behavior’ before marriage, sex is considered a ‘bonding experience’ once the couple has entered a committed union.”

As a practicing Mormon (at the time), I understandably felt guilty, so I did what LDS members are encouraged to do: I went to my ecclesiastical leader to confess. My Mormon bishop said it would not be easy and that he may excommunicate me. He asked me to make a chart of my repentance progress and then to show him my chart progress during our weekly visits. He said my forgiveness was contingent on how I filled out my chart. He also said that under no uncertain terms that my forgiveness was also contingent on me not seeing my boyfriend, (which he asked me to keep track of on my progress chart). That bishop and I met for several months. One week I was five minutes late for my appointment. He stated, and I quote,

“Because you are late, you are showing God that you do not want to be forgiven. Do you even want to repent? I need to know.” He paused for a long time and continued, “Beth, I am not sure. I will have to think about your behavior today. You may need to be disfellowshipped.”

(In Mormonism, “disfellowship” means a disciplinary action less severe than excommunication.) We continued our visits for a few months. I was terrified and began to think I was evil.

After my boyfriend and I broke up I was casually dating a few people. One of them was very well liked member of the community. One day I stopped by his work to say hello. He said,

“Beth, sit here. I will be right back.”

I was a little confused when he asked the few remaining customers to leave. Then he locked the door. I tried to leave. He insisted I remain where I was sitting. He walked up to the table and sat across from me. As the abuse started, a sort of twisted negotiation began. If I let him do what he wanted to do and told him it I liked it, then he would let me leave. I was afraid to move. He is much bigger than I am. I am not comfortable saying what happened next. At the time, I also did not want to upset the community by getting this well liked individual in trouble. Consequently, I did not go to the police. Instead, I told a couple of our mutual friends. One of those friends told some of this man’s co-workers. Instead of offering me help, validation, or just staying out of it, these co-workers told me I was not welcome at their place of business.

Upon reflection, I can say I noticed red flags in all of these situations. I even asked for help and was often told that I should let it go or just go along with it. I kept my head down and thought if were a better person, these things would not happen. After many years and many experiences, it finally hit me. I did not cause the abuse or cause someone to misuse their authority. It was not my fault. Nevertheless, I remained silent.

Regarding the news of Harvey Weinstein’s gross sexual misconduct this week, for instance, just as I am I am glad that celebrities such as Matt Damon are “sick to their stomach” now, they were not talking all those years ago. Why did it take so much effort to bring awareness, and ultimately action, to the situation? Is it because of silence? Or is it that popular, powerful or even patriarchal people get a pass? Are we the enablers? Is that why pleas for help fall on deaf ears? Because of the sorrow my own silence has caused, I would suggest that our collective conversation can help break these culturally baked-in patterns.

And yes, what the news of Harvey Weinstein has done this week is (again) open a dialog. And now we have an opportunity to be different. We can chose to stop reacting off of sound bytes and social media outbursts. Instead, we need talk. We need all the voices. (I also recognize that getting people to listen is not always easy.) As I mentioned, I have tried a thousand different ways to begin this conversation myself. Something always stops me. Usually that something is my fear of embarrassing those closest to me. Ultimately, I stop talking, slow down my own healing, and pretend that everything is ok. Usually I realize that my need not to embarrass those I love only serves to enable the abuser. Then something like hearing about the years of Harvey Weinstein’s disgusting and abusive behavior, wakes me up. Again, I ask myself,

“Why did it take so long for people to speak up?”

Obviously I have already internalized the answer: Embarrassment, shame, fear, or complacency. All of these things kept me silent. I also know that my silence perpetuates the abuse cycle.

I have a lot of rationalizations. I live in a culture where a man is the man and for me to scream is a sign of disrespect, which again enables the cycle: silence. And to fight the silence, I know I need to keep talking, but then the fear of upsetting my loved ones takes over. Even though I know that talking will protect us and that our conversations will teach us balance and discernment. Why I am speaking up now is that I recognize that words are also power. Our conversations will only serve to help us teach our children that they deserve respect; that our daughters do not have to compromise their integrity; and that our sons must be good men, even when society is telling men that they have a role: predator, (a.k.a. teenage boy who wants to touch a teenage girl’s boobs).

I also recognize that patterns are hard to break. I am a wife, a mother, a daughter and a sister. I want to be better. I want to do better. I think we all do. I want my boys to be transparent. I want to model boundaries and I want my boys to have boundaries. And that is why we dialog. I drill consent and talk about the things that are uncomfortable. I think it is also fair to mention that parenting alongside other parents can be muddy. We have dealt with other parents and their reactions to my sons, like the dad who asserted,

“I know how teenage boys think. I was one.”

As a mother, I wanted to disagree (because I do) and scream,

“Why can’t we do better?”

I remained silent. And really I am not always sure how, but I think we can do better. My initial step was to get comfortable with me (not easy still) and next to have a healthy relationship (with a man). And that is why I cannonballed myself into the deep end and dated a lot top notch guys [insert heavy sarcasm here]. First, there was the guy from church who told me I would never get married if I didn’t marry him (I was 19). At some point there was the “upstanding guy” who wanted me to reimburse his expenses after the date because I would not have sex with him; the dude who took his clothes off while I was not looking and insisted on walking to the car naked (even after I insisted he put his clothes back on); oh and the guy who said,

“Beth, you would be so much more comfortable if you took your pants off.”

Then there was the guy who dated me while engaged (he lied to both of us), the guy who liked to come to the door in a towel. As soon as I walked into his apartment, his towel would drop to the floor, and the guy I had a huge crush on. When we finally were alone. He asked me to give him a hand job, but not kiss him. He told me.

“I just broke up with my girlfriend. Kissing you is too intimate and makes me think of her.”

At least he eventually apologized. Finally there was the seemingly gentle guy who in a firm voice said there was something wrong with me because I did not like Disney movies. What? (He also freaked out and berated me when I tried to end our relationship).

“You will not find anyone better than me.” he insisted.

Dave and I in Castres, France

Thank God he was wrong and double thank God for Dave. I chose him specifically because he was different than the others. He had boundaries and he respected mine. And here is the good nudge: I chose. I did not sell myself or settle (even though I was encouraged to). Instead, I literally decided that I was tired of dating men who treated me poorly. And seriously, by the time Dave and I found one another, I do not think most people thought I was worth someone like Dave. It did not matter. I found my worth from within. And that is what I want to say out loud:

“Learn from me. You get to chose who you love. You deserve a healthy relationship.”

Society does not make self worth easy either. Ultimately, I told myself that I was worthy of a healthy relationship. And maybe that is a first. Consequently, I deliberately turned a corner and there he was. It was not magic. It was hard. I was not Dave’s property. Our relationship was not solely based on our sexual connection or manipulation. I did not have to entice him sexually to get him to like me, nor did he ever coerce me to do anything I did not want to do. He did not humiliate me. He respected my boundaries. He liked me, and was delightfully amused that I did not want to watch “The Little Mermaid,” or any Disney animated film, for that matter. Dave talked to me. He held my hand, and he was honest (even when he wanted to break up with me — like all the time).

Even though our marriage can help stop the cycle of abuse, Dave cannot heal my pain or break the patterns. And that is why he also supports me speaking up and healing. As a parent, he does not want to perpetuate unhealthy societal patterns either. That is why he wants his sons to treat others with the respect he treats me with. Again, learn from me, even though you speak up, the pain may remain close and awkward. It is ok. Mine does. I think it always will. Maybe I can use my pain to effect change in a culture that patterns abuse. That is what I am doing now.

And what happens when we take our conversation beyond this page? Answer: a lot

Such as, what if your abuser is a relative, a close friend, an ecclesiastical leader, a professor, or your boss? What if the abuser is someone in a position of power or authority? What if he or she is someone you have been taught to respect or revere? What about people who are wrongly accused of abuse? Does that happen? What about the under-reactions, over-reactions, misdirections and inappropriate responses? I know how people freak out over minor issues and how others will take the secret of being raped to their death. I also know that people who actually have been abused do not trust they will be heard. And then there is another uncomfortable, yet extremely important aspect to the conversation: women undermine healing for other women. How do we address this issue? How do we talk to the parents who are modeling unhealthy relationships and boundaries? How do we tell a drama-inducing or checked out friend that they are actually teaching their daughters to be abused? And then what do we do about the women who scream abuse when there is none? How about the attention-seeking women — those who make man-hating their cause? Should we give them the floor even when their words often serve to hijack the space for those who actually need the floor? Or because they are drawing attention to a cause, should we let them speak? Truth be told, even women who excessively truth-adjust their victim stories need to be heard. What about people who politicize abuse? What do we do about all of these issues?

I do not have a perfect answer. I think we just realize that the issues are complicated, and that is ok. Nevertheless, and from whatever lens you are viewing my words, I think the conversation is key to healing. So maybe the answer is to keep it simple. Trust that we will figure it out. Know that you are not alone. Just keep opening your mouth and using your voice. The more we use it, the easier it will become.

]]>What History Can Teach Us: United We Stand Divided We Fallhttps://www.crazyus.com/2017/10/02/what-history-can-teach-us-united-we-stand-divided-we-fall/
Mon, 02 Oct 2017 16:26:51 +0000https://www.crazyus.com/?post_id=7562I meant to post this post last night and really I have been meaning to post this for days. The world keeps moving so fast. In this moment, I am devastated that I have to add this preface. Please know that my sentiment does not change. It is actually stronger. Most of you know the news. The United States experienced the worst mass shooting in US history. Here is how I received the news: I awoke to a text from Kyle. He had gone to school early for a chemistry lab. He wanted to let me know there was a […]

]]>I meant to post this post last night and really I have been meaning to post this for days. The world keeps moving so fast. In this moment, I am devastated that I have to add this preface. Please know that my sentiment does not change. It is actually stronger.

Most of you know the news. The United States experienced the worst mass shooting in US history. Here is how I received the news: I awoke to a text from Kyle. He had gone to school early for a chemistry lab. He wanted to let me know there was a mass shooting in Las Vegas, and that 50 (now 59) people were killed and over 500 injurred by a lone gunman, a Mesquite, Utah resident. The man was shooting from his hotel room on the 32 floor. Then Kyle sent me this link with the following comment:

“it’s relevant to the mass shooting in Vegas.”

As a mom, I need to listen to what my children are saying and what they are saying is that they are confused. They do not understand why gun violence. They do not understand why people fight so hard to keep their guns. They think things are worse and they want it to stop. As a parent, what can I do? First, I can open my mouth and support them. I can show them that I agree. All these gun deaths are not ok.

Because we travel overseas a lot, people often warn us to be safe and to make sure we are not going to be in spots near “terrorists.” When we traveled to the UK earlier this summer we received the same admonition. That same week here in Utah a mother and her two children were gunned down by a crazy ex boyfriend as the woman walked her children home from school. And then before another trip a dad, who lives just a few short miles from us, was shot and killed as he chase a burglar down the street. And then one evening we were at a park with friends. Some teenagers were loudly playing basketball. The dad looked at Dave and I and said as he showed us his gun,

“Don’t worry. I am packing heat. I always pack heat and I am not afraid to use it.”

He was not joking.

Because these warnings often seep into our psyche, Dave, the boys and I have a consistent dialog about violence and our response to it. Mostly, we do not want our boys to become afraid of this beautiful world. And that is why I cannot ignore that Dave, the boys and I travel often. I also cannot ignore that we live in Utah, a state with a large gun lobby and a huge gun-supporting population. Many of our friends love their guns. They have told me why gun ownership is imperative and how own guns save lives. I am sure they think I am crazy because guns terrify me. I try to understand their perspective. We try to understand each other (I think). I have asked them why they feel this way? I am always hearted to hear that most of them want a ban on assault rifles. We both know that I do not feel the same way they do. As a result, we often agree to disagree.

But guess what? I do not think any of us should be ok with what happened in Las Vegas. Why can’t we stop blaming and simply work to make things better? And really, how bad does our world have to get for things to change? Mostly, we need to pay attention to each other. We need to love each other. We need to get along.

A cord of three united strands is stronger than a single strand. And it is even more complex. Three strands can braid together in various configurations, and if one strand breaks, the other two are there for support. I think the same goes for us humans, when we unite, we are also stronger. Ultimately I would suggest that as humans our backstory, or better, our identity, our politics, our religion, or lack therefore only increases the strength of our bond.

Dave, Castillo San Cristóbal National Historic Site, San Juan, Puerto Rico, December 2016

I want to be fair. I realize that if I am going to sound a little preachy or pull the “pay attention to history” card, I should actually know where the phrase, “united we stand, divided we fall,” comes from. In truth, I always thought, “united we stand, divided we fall” was synonymous with the birth of United States of America. I imagined it went something like this: During a profound battle I Revolutionary War soldiers standing their ground. When all hope was lost, one of the soldiers would rise from the battle fog, repeatedly shouting, “united we stand, divided we fall.” Can you hear the soundtrack now? Yes. It is also true that the phrase was used at various times in early American history. Patrick Henry used it. He was very vocal in his political views as a public orator. In fact, he was the guy who, in 1775, literally uttered that famous phrase, “give me liberty, or give me death.” It was in March 1799, two months before his death, when he speaking publicly, he proclaimed,

“Let us trust God, and our better judgment to set us right hereafter. United we stand, divided we fall. Let us not split into factions which must destroy that union upon which our existence hangs.”

Yes, it would (obviously) make sense why he used those words, “united we stand divided we fall.” And if Patrick Henry can us anything now, I think he wanted us to know what happens when we “split into factions:” Our “union” is destroyed, and as a result our very “existence” is threatened. Ok. But then do we unite with you, or do you unite with me? I mean, whose opinions do we follow? And then I realized what history is trying to teach me: it is not about opinions it is about strength.

I think I get the point and as a result, I want to attribute the incarnation of those words right into the bold and thoughtful speeches of our founding fathers. I can’t. In reality, the phrase, “united we stand, divided we fall,” actually traces to the Greek storyteller Aesop, who used them in his fable The Four Oxen and the Lion,” and indirectly in another, “The Bundle of Sticks.”

Here is how “The Four Oxen and the Lion” goes: A lion was stalking four oxen. Each time the lion would approach one of the oxen, as a warning sign to the others, another oxen would turn and wag its tail. When the lion reached the oxen, it was always met by their protective horns. One day the oxen started arguing among themselves. Frustrated with their contrasting opinions, each oxen fled and went to a separate area of the field. Then, one by one, the lion attacked and eventually killed all four oxen. The story ends: “United we stand, divided we fall.” (Ouch! I am seeing a pattern.)

Looking at San Juan in the distance at Castillo San Cristóbal National Historic Site, Puerto Rico

And that is why I keep asking myself,

“Why does it take repeating history, or until we are on the brink of death and or extreme catastrophe for humanity to face the reality that we are better together than we are apart?”

Let me slow down the life lesson and push back on myself. First, I think our separateness, better, our identity is extremely important. I also realize that I cannot adequately deconstruct all aspects of identity here. Simply put, I like who I am (a little left of moderate). Broadly put, I am reminded of my return to college. As an English major I was introduced to colonialism and postcolonial literature. “Colonialism is the policy or practice of acquiring full or partial political control over another country, occupying it with settlers, and exploiting it economically.” In his book, “Decolonizing the Mind,” Kenyan author, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o eloquently states,

“In colonial conquest, language did to the mind what the sword did to the bodies of the colonized.”

That is why I wonder if in our contemporary world if Facebook, Social Media, or 24-hour cable news have similar effects. I wonder if it would help to correlate, say, social media’s influence to colonialism? Would it help to know that as a result of colonialism, the colonized nation’s language and culture were often wiped out? At least with social media we still have a choice what culture we want to be a part of. It was my well-intended professor who again reminded us how learning about history, such as the consequences colonialism, can actually teach us how not to repeat its same mistakes.

If we do not want to repeat the past, if we do not want another World War then how can we be better now? I do not think the answer is easy. I think it will take a lot of humility and empathy from all sides. And honestly, I wonder if we can. For starters, we all seem to think we are either victims, or we are better, more worthy, more entitled, more patriotic or maybe just afraid. Entitled behavior is reflected in our conversations. Often discussion are centered on our response instead of our listening. We get so caught up in speaking our truth that I think we forget to hear — myself included. And maybe that is why I worry. If we cannot communicate on this basic level, how are we going to better the world around us? Recently there have been two deadly hurricanes. I am confused. Why are people persisting to talk about the American flag while people are dying in Puerto Rico? Similarly, I think the people talking about the flag must think I am unpatriotic because I want to talk about Puerto Rico. Does that make sense? As a result, the vast communication divide terrifies me. See, as I studied colonialism I was also able to correlate patterns of control. I learned how slowly division and disrespect seep in. Then one day we are justifying the eradication of entire societies. Ultimately, identity shaming fed the fire that ruined these societies. And that is why respecting cultural identity (as long as you are not hurting anyone) is imperative to our survival.

Tŷ Mawr Wybrnant, Conwy County Borough, North Wales

Tŷ Mawr Wybrnant, Conwy County Borough, North Wales

In fact, I saw identity preservation first hand this past summer. Dave, the boys and I we were able to visit Tŷ Mawr Wybrnant, which is a house located in the Wybrnant Valley, in the community of Bro Machno, near Betws-y-Coed in Conwy County Borough, North Wales (yes, a mouthful). Tŷ Mawr Wybrnant is the birthplace of Bishop William Morgan, first translator of the whole Bible into Welsh. Because Bishop William Morgan translated the bible into Welsh, he was able to preserve the Welsh language. As a result, he was also able to preserve the Welsh identity against the strong colonial influence of the English. I found it interesting that a man who works for the National Trust actually lives full time at the Tŷ Mawr Wybrnant barn. After we toured the property, Kyle and I went back to speak with him. He shared with me that until recently, kids in school were single out and punished for speaking Welsh. He said,

“It was this bible translation that saved our people. And I will fight to save us too.”

He explained that Welsh is actually his first language and that he also recognizes the importance of speaking English. And yes, his relationship with his neighbor to the east is tense, but also necessary. He makes it work and wants to make it work.

The boys & I at Tŷ Mawr Wybrnant, Conwy County Borough, North Wales

Tŷ Mawr Wybrnant, Conwy County Borough, North Wales

And that is when it occurred to me, identity does not have to mean divided. Dropping our barriers does not mean losing our identity either. In fact, I would argue that the phrase “united we stand, divided we fall” implies that remaining true to ourselves is imperative for a society’s survival.

This is our moment. This is our history to make. What will we do? Will we focus on how we are all different or will we extend a hand? Some suggest unity is about learning how to disagree with each other. I think that is a great start. I would also argue that a person needing rescue in Puerto Rico this week would not care if an aid worker is someone who stands, kneels or sits during the National Anthem. My guess is that someone who has gone without fresh drinking water for several days really does not care what color the skin is on the hand handing them the cup. Further, I do not think the people who were being plucked off of their rooftops in Houston quizzed the helicopter pilot before boarding:

“Did you vote for Clinton or Trump? Oh you voted for Clinton, well, I am not getting on your aircraft.”

I would imagine that they were just grateful for these lifesaving efforts.

In fact, dropping personal biases and barriers is actually what creates unity. So what if Kyle mixes the bananas more fervently than I would. Does it mean his banana bread will suck? Absolutely not. It means I need to let go of my control. I may think you are insane for watching 24-hour cable news and you make think I am a crazy “Obamacare”-loving liberal. Setting bias aside, my guess is that we both care about people who are suffering. And maybe it is time to take a deep breath, start assuming the best in others, and unite just because people are hurting and need our help. And you know what? History has also shown us this: when we stand together we are strong. So let’s not be those oxen who could not figure out how to get along. Because what did the lion teach us: that had they remained united, he would not have been able to eat them.

Dave & I, Puerto Rico, December, 2016

And as humans, I just hope death and destruction is not what it takes to get us there.